The Case of the Irish Terrorists
by dmcreif
Summary: Adrian Monk, his wife Kendra Marybeth Davenport, and assistant Natalie Davenport Teeger, are on a roll, closing cases left and right. But things change after they're hired by the boss of a private investigation firm in San Francisco, and worse, they begin to think that their new boss is actually a terrorist plotting a very sinister plan. AU work
1. An Introduction from Kendra Davenport

**A/N:** I might as well start off by explaining to you how this story first came to life.

In 2009, Lee Goldberg, the first writer of the _Monk_ novels, wrote a book called _Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop_. Well, technically it was written in 2008 and published in July 2009. The plot of the story was that when Captain Stottlemeyer is faced with budget cuts, Monk's consulting contract is terminated. He and Natalie are hired by PI firm called Intertect, run by an ex-cop named Nick Slade. Shortly thereafter, Stottlemeyer is framed for a murder and Monk is the only person who can clear his name.

Personally, I thought that the story had some good things in it, but I thought that I could improve on it. So this story started as a rewrite of _Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop_ about five years ago. In time, it eventually became very different from the original work. While some of the original's plot elements and characters are kept, this story does drop a number of Monk's idiosyncrasies and plays out more like an action thriller than a typical _Monk_ investigation. The violence is ramped up a bit, for instance.

This story is set in an alternate continuity of my own that's been moved about seven or eight years into the future from the actual series. In this continuity, Natalie is a widow who became Adrian Monk's assistant when her husband and daughter were murdered, and Adrian is married to a new cousin of Natalie's named Kendra Marybeth Davenport. I have another 'story' that is meant to explain the background of the characters per my continuity.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **An Introduction from Kendra Davenport:**

Here is something you learn about brilliant detectives in fiction: they're typically a bit messed up in the head.

I mean, Nero Wolfe was a defining example of this. He was just a morbidly obese private eye (not whale-sized, although I do know an obese man called "Dale the Whale") who refused to leave his Manhattan brownstone. He instead stayed at home tending to his orchids, downing at minimum, five quarts of beer a day, and eating gourmet meals prepared by a live-in chef. He also employed a private-eye named Archie Goodwin to do all the legwork - question clients, run investigative errands, track down leads, and drag people back to the brownstone to be rudely questioned. I can't remember the specifics, but Archie was an ex-cop or something, so he was cut out for the job.

Then there was Sherlock Holmes. As Arthur Conan Doyle wrote him, he was an eccentric, washed up cocaine addict who played the violin 24/7 and conducted dangerous chemical experiments in the living room of 221B Baker Street. If it weren't for Dr. John Watson, he'd probably have been committed. Dr. Watson had retired from the army with a war wound from Afghanistan (either in his leg or his head), rented a room from Holmes, and ended up being the detective's assistant and official chronicler. A medical degree and combat experience gave Dr. Watson the skills and the temperament he needed to deal with Holmes.

Of course, America is a breeding ground for eccentric detectives. He may be fictional, but I'm a fan of fictional detectives like Richard Castle, Kate Beckett, Temperance 'Bones' Brennan, and Seeley Booth.

* * *

I'm from San Francisco, California. Like every other American city, we have our own brilliant detective. His name is Adrian Monk, and he is practically a living legend among law enforcement in the United States. He is the most uncanny genius you'll ever meet. He can look at you and read your whole life story if he wants to. He can identify your occupation based on the littlest clues. Adrian can identify you as an alcoholic based merely on damage inflicted to your cell phone. He can determine if you had sex recently, and the physical build of your paramour, just from looking at your skin. And most importantly, he always gets his man, because nothing will stop him from prowling the crime-ridden streets of San Francisco in search of justice.

Who am I? I'm Kendra Davenport, Adrian Monk's wife and one of his two crimefighting partners. Neither I nor my cousin Natalie Teeger may be a former FBI agent, or aspiring medic, but I am one thing: a hardcore action girl who practically could be lifted straight out of an action movie. I used to be a roadie for a rock band before I met Adrian, and before that, I was taking criminology courses in college.

What I've learned while married to Adrian and working with him and Natalie on cases is that it doesn't matter what your job before you began working, or in my case, get married to, an eccentric detective is, it won't make a difference. Because what makes him capable of solving impossible crimes is going to make it really difficult for everyone around him. I practically was a cure for most of Adrian's eccentricities when he married me in 2012.

For the most part, we're the trio that gets called in by my dad, Lieutenant Kendrick Davenport, whenever there's a case where the police might be stumped. Though often we also end up working cases where we weren't called in and usually Adrian ends up solving the crime anyway.

One case that stands out a lot amongst the investigations is the case of Douglas O'Donnell, a particularly ruthless criminal whose crime spree, which ranged from armed robbery to mass murder, invoked a sense of terror throughout the city over the course of a multiweek rampage.


	2. We Get A Most Unexpected Job Offer

**August 2, 2016:**

With no active cases to investigate, we ended up doing grocery shopping at the massive Davenport Wholesale warehouse in the Mission District on Tenth Street. We shop there typically about once or twice a month and usually rack up about maybe $2,000 in purchases.

I won't go over specifics of what we bought. I will say, though, that the shopping trip itself was uneventful up until we were finished stocking up on our fried pork supply in frozen foods and about to head to the cash registers, when Adrian had a near-collision with an old man wheeling an oxygen tank. He was wheezing, with tiny tubes running from the tank to his nose. He appeared to be in his sixties, with sunken, grizzled cheeks, and fierce eyes.

"Sorry!" Natalie said, "We didn't see you."

Adrian didn't move, and was examining the old guy like he was another species. I noticed that neither of the other occupants in this aisle – a pregnant woman and a woman in a nun's habit - were paying any attention to this old man.

"You smoke three packs a day for 33 years and you can have this for free too, pal," the old man wheezed, knocking his knuckles against the edge of the tank.

"Our apologies, sir," Adrian said, "Please, go on." We stepped aside to let him pass.

Adrian cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. I saw his gaze shift to the oxygen gauge.

"Natalie, Kendra, I don't think that guy's really disabled," Adrian said to us in a low voice.

"What makes you say that?" I whispered.

"I think the gauge reading on his tank is incorrect," Adrian replied.

"What?" Natalie asked.

"I don't think he's using the tank to carry oxygen," he said.

Without a word, Adrian marched over to the old man. Natalie grabbed the cart and started driving it after us.

"Excuse me, mister," Adrian said, "Jig's up."

"The jig?" the old man wheezed.

"You've been busted," Adrian said.

"What do you want with me, mister? Get out of my way," the old man tried to walk away from Adrian, but simultaneously, Adrian put his foot in front of the oxygen tank's trolley wheels, and Natalie and I stepped in front of the old man himself.

"Where do you think you're going, mister?" Natalie asked. "Jail?"

"Leave me alone," the old man yelled as he yanked his trolley free. Adrian immediately embraced the tank, holding it tight. Natalie and I moved to restrain the man.

"Don't go anywhere, buddy," I gave him the mischievous smile, "You've been caught."

"Adrian, Kendra, security's here," Natalie said. Adrian and I looked up. Two beefy looking guys with ear pieces and ill-fitting jackets had appeared almost out of nowhere.

"What is going on here?" the African American one asked.

"Uh, nothing, Mr…..Wilkinson," Adrian said, glancing at the guy's nametag.

"Isn't it obvious?" the old man gasped for breath, "These lunatics are attacking me!"

"Yes, sir, we are!" I said, "We just nabbed ourselves a shoplifter here, didn't we, honey?"

"Yes, darling, we did," Adrian said.

"Did you three see this man stealing items?" Mr. Wilkinson asked.

"No, sir," Adrian said, "We did not."

"So why are you accusing him of being a shoplifter if you didn't see him in the act?"

"Look at the gauge on his oxygen tank," Adrian said, tapping the gauge, "It's empty."

The old man abruptly collapsed to the floor and began to gasp for breath, clutching at his chest. Mr. Wilkinson's colleague crouched by the man's side. "We'd better call for an ambulance."

Mr. Wilkinson nodded, and the other security guard spoke into his radio. "This is Breckman. Can we get some paramedics to frozen foods, please?"

For some reason, Adrian, Natalie and I were actually very much amused by the old man's horrible acting. Adrian couldn't resist chuckling, Natalie and I broke out giggling.

"Geez, this is even worse than the last time we caught a shoplifter!" I managed to say between giggles.

"What's so funny? He's dying here!" Mr. Wilkinson said.

"It's funny," Adrian said, "You-you just saw us wrestling with him to restrain him and his gauge has been at zero for at least five minutes, maybe more. If he really had emphysema, his skin would be bluer than Queen Elsa's ice palace by now."

The old man was having spasms, writhing and choking on the floor. A crowd of horrified shoppers was beginning to gather.

"I think he's dying," Mr. Wilkinson's partner said, "Should we call for a coroner?"

"I don't think so," Adrian said, "This tank is probably stuffed with merchandise. The interior lining jams the security tags, so he can enter and leave the store without setting off the detectors, and avoid being noticed by the receipt inspectors."

The old man gurgled, and his legs twitched. No one was buying his performance now.

"Natalie, open the tank," Adrian said. Natalie unlatched the lid on the top of the tank.

"Ooh, look at this contraband!" she said, "Socks, jeans, khakis, chuck roast. Man, what are you buying this stuff for?"

The old man stopped flopping and sighed with resignation. "You got me."

"Your days as a shoplifter are done," Adrian said. "Kendra, would you like to do the honors?"

I smiled. "With pleasure." I pulled the old man to his feet and Natalie supplied me a set of cable ties to secure his hands behind his back.

"Well, thank you, sir," Mr. Wilkinson said, "We appreciate the help. I think we'll take it from here."

"Aren't we forgetting about the pregnant woman?" Adrian asked.

"What?" Mr. Wilkinson asked.

Adrian pointed to the pregnant woman down the aisle who was pretending not to notice us. "That one, who isn't pregnant," he said.

She glanced at us and must have seen something on our faces that she didn't like. She immediately bolted. Without even thinking, I charged her and I took her down with a flying tackle, a skill learned from my dad. We hit the ground hard and her tummy pack burst open like a pinata, spilling stolen clothing and food all over. She snarled at me and I snarled right back.

"Well, miss, you've just had an abortion," I said. I stuck my pistol in her back while Natalie and Adrian secured her hands with cable ties.

"How long have you been faking this one?" Natalie said to no one in particular.

The security guys rushed over.

"Good job," Adrian said, "Nice tackle, Kendra. You should win a medal for that."

I smiled. "You think?" I quickly leaned in and kissed him.

"How did you know?" Natalie asked.

"She walked straight and didn't waddle like a pregnant person," Adrian explained, "Plus, when she dropped her purse, she bent at the waist to pick it up."

"Oh," Natalie said. "I guess I didn't notice that. Shopper's indignation, I suppose."

Mr. Wilkinson looked back at Adrian. "Anyone else?"

"Yes," Adrian said, "That guy over there."

He was pointing to the guy on the smartphone pretending not to notice us, and listening to his music.

"You can see he's got his iPad out," Adrian continued, "He's holding it up like he's trying to read text messages. But if you look closely, the phone is off. He's not checking texts or listening to music at all. He's the ringleader and lookout."

A half dozen uniformed cops had just showed up. Two of them were sent to secure handcuffs on the iPad lookout.

"Adrian, you really are observant," Natalie said, "More observant than I wish to admit."

"I was just glancing," Adrian said. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

Just as we were about to leave, another man, who appeared to be in his early 40s, approached. He was well-dressed, wearing a gray Hermes V-neck sweater over a white t-shirt, loose fitting enough to convey a casual attitude but not so loose that you couldn't tell he was buff underneath. His True Religion jeans hugged him so tight that if weren't for the fact I was married to Adrian and didn't believe in religion myself, I'd have found religion right there. He also was wearing Armani loafers, Ray-Ban sunglasses and an Omega Seamaster's wristwatch.

"Hi, are you Adrian Monk?" he asked. The man had a very strong Irish brogue, like he was a fresh-off-the-boat, first generation immigrant.

"Yes," Adrian said. "Can we help you with something?"

"I'm Douglas O'Donnell," he said, "I was interested in selling you copies of _The Watchtower._ " Adrian and I stared at him. Natalie forced a smile.

"You're joking, right?" Natalie asked.

"Yes, Miss Teeger," O'Donnell said, "I can't help myself around attractive women. I woo them way too often." He turned towards Adrian. "Of course, I'm actually here to woo you, in a professional sense, of course."

"What can we do for you, Mr. O'Donnell?" Adrian asked.

"What I know you do better than anybody else," O'Donnell said, and pulled out a business card, "I'm the founder and CEO of Intertect Private Investigations & Security Management. We're a private investigation and security firm based here in San Francisco. I am interested in hiring you as an operative, a consultant, or a Grand Poobah of Detection, whatever you want. I just want to employ you."

"We're not available," Adrian said.

"Aw, has someone else beaten me to you already?" O'Donnell asked. "I guess I should've reached out to you earlier. I'm making you a proposition here."

"We consult almost exclusively with the SFPD," I said, "We don't need extra employment."

"Miss Davenport, I've got contacts in the department," O'Donnell said, "They said you're the best in the business."

"Oh," I said, "You've spoken to my dad?"

"I used to be part of the force," O'Donnell replied, "I used to be a detective in Vice until about a year or so ago when we decided that there was more money to be made in the private sector."

"I see," Adrian said, "I vaguely remember you. I think you were infiltrating a number of street gangs?"

"Yeah, I was," O'Donnell replied, "Look, Mr. Monk, Miss Teeger, Miss Davenport, I've been waiting for an opportunity to make a play for your services for a while."

"What stopped you from doing so until now?" Natalie asked. "We aren't under exclusive contract."

"I'm asking you to come work for me," O'Donnell said.

Adrian rolled his shoulders. "We're not exactly comfortable in corporate environments. They're so…boring."

"You aren't comfortable in any environment, sir," Natalie said.

"I pretend to not be comfortable," Adrian said, "It's so that other people keep their guard down and underestimate my abilities."

"You don't even have to come down to the office if you don't want to," O'Donnell said, "We could get you files by messenger or e-mail. We can converse over the phone, in person, or even via Skype. Whatever you want. You can pick and choose your cases and clients. You will have free access to all of our considerable resources. I'm talking research, scientific analysis, surveillance and manpower. We'll give you whatever assistance you need."

"Natalie and Kendra are my assistants," Adrian said.

O'Donnell smiled at me and Natalie. "Of course they are. My offer to you, Mr. Monk, also extends to Miss Teeger and Miss Davenport as well, as does our benefits package."

"Benefits?" Natalie's voice cracked a bit.

"Medical and dental coverage for you three," O'Donnell said, "I know you are also Mr. Monk's driver, so naturally we would cover gasoline, car insurance, and expenses, or if you prefer, a company car from our fleet."

Natalie looked like she could have cried. We could now have someone else pay for expenses that otherwise came out of the healthy trust funds Natalie and I each had.

O'Donnell turned to Adrian. "Our own medical plan would also cover your psychiatric care."

"What's the catch to it?" Adrian asked. "There's almost always a catch."

"You'd be working exclusively for Intertect," O'Donnell said, "Well, almost exclusively. Look, your SFPD consulting contract is still in play and I wouldn't think of finding a way to void it. And if it's intellectual stimulation you're worried about, let me put you at ease. Intertect investigates all kinds of cases for our individual and corporate clients, up to and including murder."

Natalie cleared her throat and put on her best poker face. "All these benefits are a given, Mr. O'Donnell," she said, "But what kind of salary would you be offering? If you want Adrian here to lend you his international reputation and his perfect homicide case-closure rate, he expects a compensation package that guarantees that he will share in any phenomenal success he brings to your firm."

O'Donnell took a pen from his breast pocket, as well as a pen. He wrote something on the back of the card and passed it to Adrian.

"This would be your monthly salary," O'Donnell said, "It's only the floor to get us started. We'll be glad to negotiate an escalator clause with you that will be tied to certain agreed-upon work performance levels."

Natalie and I glanced over Adrian's shoulder to look at the number. I had to look twice to make sure I wasn't imagining things. It was a huge bump up from what we were paid just as police consultants.

Adrian shook his head. "I don't think that number's good enough."

"What would make it good enough?" O'Donnell asked.

"Round it up to the nearest thousand," Adrian said.

O'Donnell took his card back and rounded the figure up to a big, fat, whole number with lots of zeroes on the end.

"Mr. Monk, you drive a hard bargain," he said, "Do we have a deal then?"

Adrian nodded and smiled.

"Yes, sir," Adrian said. O'Donnell, Natalie and I all smiled. O'Donnell had to go to the same dentist Natalie, Adrian and I went to.

"I'm so pleased." O'Donnell held out his hand. Adrian shook it.

"We can also start today," Adrian said.

"That's wonderful," O'Donnell said, "Just come by the office this afternoon. I'll arrange for someone to help set you up with the paperwork."

O'Donnell walked away.

"Who is that guy?" I asked.

"I don't know," Adrian said, "There's something about him I don't like and I can't put my finger on it."

"What are you thinking it is?" I asked.

"I said I don't know, Kendra," Adrian said. "Let's just get ourselves on the payroll and hopefully I'm just imagining things."

* * *

 **A/N:** This entire sequence of Adrian, Kendra and Natalie breaking up a shoplifting ring is adapted from a similar scene in the novel _Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu_ where Monk busts a shoplifting at a department store.

BTW, this Davenport Wholesale warehouse is really just San Francisco's Costco store under a new name.


	3. Intertect Investigations Day 1

**A/N #1:** Parts of this chapter were copied from the book _Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop_ , in particular the company Intertect and the character Danielle Hossack and much of the dialogue. This is because this story you're reading was originally written as a rewritten and action-dramatized version of that book, but then I had to make it its own thing.

* * *

Intertect's offices were on the 20th floor of 555 Mission Street downtown, just down the street from where The Davenport Group was building a new company headquarters. After dropping off our groceries at our penthouse, Adrian, Natalie and I drove down to the offices so that we could fill out all the paperwork to get us on the payroll and the health plan as soon as possible.

As we walked down the hall, I saw that each office had a window with a commanding view of the buildings directly across Mission Street, but I guess that was better than having no view at all. By my count, Intertect had at least 30 operatives, and those were just the ones with offices.

We were led to a vacant office that was set aside for us if we ever needed it, but I doubted that we would want to come up here unless there was a dead body in it. The office came with a sleek computer, sleek furniture, and an even sleeker assistant in her early twenties named Danielle Hossack.

Danielle informed us on her background statistics: born in Miami in 1991, graduated from the University of Denver in 2013 with a degree in psychology, was fluent in English and Spanish, and had a black-belt in tae kwon do. She also was blessed with the body of a lingerie model. She didn't have to tell us that, though. It was painfully obvious from what she was wearing, which qualified more as underwear than clothes. In fact, all the women at the Intertect offices were young, gorgeous, and scantily clad. I thought what I was wearing was modest compared to what she was wearing.

O'Donnell was going to be in for a big disappointment if he expected us to dress that way. For me, a black t-shirt, my black Trafalgar vest-jacket, and black pants was enough.

"So how long have you worked here?" Adrian asked.

"For about two years," Danielle said, "I joined right out of college."

"Do you like working here?" Natalie asked.

"Are you kidding? I love it," she said, "I've learned so much working for O'Donnell. He's an amazing man."

"He must be," I said, "I know lots of police detectives leave the force to become private eyes, but few are as successful as he is. What's the Douglas O'Donnell secret to success?"

"Substantial capitalization and abundant charm," Danielle said, "Three years ago, he made some wise investments in the stock market and used his profits to start the company. I've learned that successful detection is a combination of determination, intuition, and getting people to give you what you want. Douglas is a real people person. He can win over anybody he meets."

"That's for sure," Natalie said. Danielle gave her a knowing look.

"If you're thinking about hooking up with him, I should warn you that he's very sweet and a great lover, but he's a free spirit. Monogamy is not part of his personality. He wants to enjoy the buffet of life's opportunities."

That sounded like a direct quote from O'Donnell.

"Does that philosophy factor into his hiring practices?" Adrian asked. "I mean, I'm not planning on having my wife or Natalie sleep with him."

"Is that your way of asking if he sleeps with every woman he hires?" Danielle asked him.

"Your female employees all seem very young and attractive," Adrian said.

"And smart," Danielle added, "There's not a woman here, whether it's a secretary or an operative, who doesn't have a degree or two under her garter belt."

"They wear garter belts?" I asked.

She politely ignored my remark. "Sleeping with him won't get you hired or get you promoted or get you any special treatment, beyond what he does for you in bed, of course, which is pretty exceptional."

Natalie raised an eyebrow. "So you give him two thumbs up in the sack-a-roo?"

"If you got into bed with him, you won't be sorry that you did."

"No thanks," Natalie said, "I for one explicitly refuse to ever have sex, and even if I did, I don't think I'd do it with someone who probably has a dozen or so paramours."

"Besides, we're not big on buffets. We believe that when we go out to eat, we should only go to places where the food is brought to us instead of us getting up and walking to the counter to get it," Adrian said, "But thanks for the heads-up. To be honest, I'm surprised by your candor."

"Because I'm not shy about discussing sex?"

"Because you're so open with intimate and potentially unflattering details about your boss with three new employees that you've just met," Adrian said, "Isn't that a bit indiscreet?"

Danielle smiled. "I'm an employee of Intertect but I am working for you three now. You deserve my full honesty if we're going to establish any kind of trust. And besides, Douglas doesn't mind my talking about his sex life or I wouldn't do it. He's a very open guy."

"In more ways than one," Natalie said.

"And you don't need to worry about me breaking any trust as far as you three are concerned," Danielle said, "My first loyalty now is to all three of you. Douglas made that very clear and that's fine with me. I consider it be an honor to working with you, the trio that thwarted that assassination attempt on Arnold Schwarzenegger."

"Thanks," Adrian said.

"Just don't sell yourself short," Danielle said, "You guys are the best in the private eye business."

Just what the doctor ordered: some advice on self-esteem from a 24 year old woman with a college degree and a body that could melt Michelangelo's David. What did she know about insecurity?

"And if you ever need me, I'm pretty much on call at all times," Danielle added, "I'm at your beck and call at any hour of the day or night, seven days a week, for anything you might need."

"Thanks," Adrian said. Danielle went out to her desk, dropped our completed forms in her outbox, and wheeled in what looked like a rolling file drawer.

"What are these?" I asked.

"Open cases for you to review," she said "Any insights you can give the detectives working on them would be welcomed, or you can take over them yourselves."

It looked like a pretty large amount of work, but considering the pay, I couldn't blame them for wanting to throw us a lot of cases.

Danielle wheeled the cart to the elevator. Adrian, Natalie and I followed her down to our car in the parking garage. The cart wheels collapsed like those on an ambulance gurney. Before she left, she handed us a set of credit cards.

"These cards can be used for gasoline and any other expenses," she said, "Use them accordingly, and wisely."

"Thanks," Adrian said.

"I think we'll be pretty happy here at Intertect," I said.

I gave Adrian a small kiss as Danielle walked out.

* * *

We got right to work that afternoon, sitting around the dining room table as we looked at the various files. One file concerned the disappearance of some diamonds from a Pacific Heights house.

"OK, the case of these missing diamonds was an inside job," Adrian said, closing that file folder.

"So who was it?" I asked, "The cleaning lady, the son with the online gambling issue, her sneaky ex-husband, his bitter ex-wife, or their contractor?"

"None of them," Adrian said, "It was the dog trainer."

"But that trainer worked with the dog in the backyard," Natalie said, "He didn't have access to the house."

"The dog did it," Adrian said, "The trainer taught the dog to steal the diamonds and bury them in the backyard. That explains the dirt tracks on the floor."

"And what happens now?"

"The trainer plans to retrieve the diamonds the next time he works with the dog," Adrian said, checking his watch, "In approximately two hours."

Natalie opened her purse and grabbed her cell phone. "I guess I'll call the police and notify them so they can catch the guy in the act."

"And while you're at it, I think you should also call State Barn and tell them they're right: this tennis pro is almost certainly faking his arm injury," Adrian said, sliding another file, "Look at the sling on his right arm."

"I just looked at this one," I said, "He tripped on a crack in that country club's parking lot. He can't band or extend it and the doctors say his arm is locked at a 90 degree angle."

"Yet the surveillance photos make it clear his keys are in his right pocket," Adrian said, "So how does he get the keys out if he can't straighten his arm?"

Natalie and I squinted at the photo. Our eyesight wasn't as perfect as Adrian's, but I knew that his word was typically fact. I think I'd see the keys myself if I had a bionic eye.

"He could always use his left hand and reach over," I said.

"Good point, Kendra," Adrian said, "Still, it's highly unlikely that would be the case."

"Ah," I said.

"Also," Adrian picked up another file, "Uh, looks like the company spy at Charlie Company Choppers who's been sneaking trade secrets to the competition is this disabled engineer, Mr. Sommerlik."

"Are you sure?" Natalie asked.

Adrian picked up a photograph of a slender man who was wearing a cardigan sweater and sitting in a manual wheelchair.

"He says he's been confined to this wheelchair ever since he broke his back in a helicopter crash five years ago, but this picture is from when he was posing for his photo ID six months ago, when he was hired. There are blisters on his hands."

"So?" I said.

"If he's been pushing himself around in a wheelchair for five years without upgrading to an automatic one, he should have calluses on his fingers by now."

Natalie and I looked at this photo too. The blisters weren't exactly noticeable, but remember that Adrian has an eagle eye when it comes to open sores.

"He's probably got secret compartments to smuggle out photos, drawings, CDs, anything he can get his hands on," Adrian said.

"I guess I'll make sure that the Charlie Company knows to detain the guy and seize his wheelchair," Natalie said. She went off to her bedroom to make some phone calls.

I was somewhat baffled we were being handed such easy work.

"Boy, Adrian, this—this is easy stuff," I said, "Why is Mr. O'Donnell giving us cases like this? This is…..like nothing compared to murder cases!"

"We specialize in murder cases, Kendra," Adrian said, "Although yes, we also specialize in abductions and high stakes heists."

"It just feels weird that O'Donnell is giving us a big pile of these cases that you're solving in a matter of minutes," I said. "It's almost like he's trying to distract us. Maybe you're right when you said at the store that this guy clearly has to be up to something."

"Why else would he hire us unless he wants us occupied while he's doing something sinister?" Adrian asked. "All right, Kendra, let's just do maybe one more of these files and then call it a day."

"OK," I said, "I guess maybe we should solely take on new cases instead of old ones. Let the other Intertect operatives take care of those."

"That sounds like a good idea, Kendra," Adrian said.

* * *

We did call it a day after closing another case which involved an abduction scam. To be honest, I didn't bother to remember the exact details. We went out to dinner at a diner just down Jones Street from our apartment. Afterwards, I, at the very least, settled in for a nice bath before going to sleep.

* * *

 **A/N:** If you want an idea of who I picture as the model for Danielle Hossack, it's American actress Génesis Rodríguez. She's not exactly a well-known actress, but she was the voice of Honey Lemon in Big Hero 6. I think of Danielle as being about two to three years younger than Rodriguez is in real life.


	4. Poolside Homicide

**A/N:** This chapter does take some elements from a couple of different books, like _Mr. Monk Gets Even_ , _Mr. Monk is a Mess,_ and _Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop._ So don't be surprised if you experience any deja vu while reading the chapter.

* * *

August 3, 2016:

After such a stressful day, my bed felt incredibly soft and comfortable. I slept so well I could have easily slept in until the following evening if my cell phone on my nightstand hadn't started ringing around 7:30 a.m.

"Thank God it's not another call from President Underwood's re-election campaign," I mumbled to myself. I'd received early morning robocalls from political organizations several times in the past few weeks as the election season approached, and let me just say it, I eventually found a way to modify my phone so that it had a different ringtone for political calls and one for non-political calls. The ringtone I heard that morning was the non-political ringtone. I reached for the phone with my left hand and checked the caller ID. To my surprise, it was Danielle Hossack.

"Danielle, what are you doing calling us this early?" I asked myself.

I flipped my phone open and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hi Miss Davenport," Danielle said, "Is Mr. Monk around?"

My head was still attached to the warmth of my pillows and I didn't want to give that up any time soon.

"Yeah, he's probably still asleep," I said, "Is something wrong, Danielle?"

"I need you here, like, now," Danielle said. She sounded like her voice was trembling.

"You sound like you're in trouble," I said. "What's going on?"

"It's my sister Denise," Danielle said, "She's dead. I don't know who else to call."

"Jeez. Have you called the police yet?" I asked.

"I did, like, five minutes ago," Danielle said, "They just got here."

"Oh my gosh," I said, "Where do you live, Danielle?"

"I live at the northeast corner of Pacific and Presidio," Danielle said. "If you can't find it, just look for the police cars."

"We'll be right there," I said.

With that, I hung up.

I quickly got out of bed, stripped off my bathrobe and striped pajamas, and donned my black t-shirt, Trafalgar jacket and black pants. I then went to roust Adrian and Natalie.

"Adrian," I said, "Danielle just called and she just wants to see us right away."

"Is something wrong?" Adrian asked.

"Her sister's dead," I said, "She says she needs us."

"All right, let's get going," Adrian said. "We better use our siren, too."

Danielle Hossack lived in a two story house on Pacific Avenue at Presidio Boulevard in Laurel Heights. It was a house that I estimated to be at least eighty years old, maybe even more.

Even using the siren and emergency lights on our Lexus, it took us about six minutes to drive from our penthouse to Danielle's place. We drove south four blocks on Jones Street to get to Pacific Avenue, then we rocketed west on Pacific. After a few minutes, we'd crested the hill at Lyon Street.

"There's the house," Adrian said.

"I see it, Adrian," Natalie said.

There were approximately five SFPD patrol cars parked in front of the house, as well as an ambulance, a fire engine, the medical examiner's van, and a forensics truck, and all of them had their emergency lights on. There were pedestrians and neighbors standing on the sidewalk or on their lawns, staring at the house like they were waiting for something interesting was about to happen. Some of them had their smartphones or their video cameras out, recording footage of the police work undoubtedly to share to their Facebook or Twitter pages.

Another officer was stepping out of the house as we walked up to the front door. That was where Danielle met us. The first thing I noticed was that she was dripping wet.

"Thanks for coming, Mr. Monk. I just didn't know who else to call." She gestured inside to her living room, where a couple of uniformed cops were conferring. "I don't know how to talk to them or what questions I should be asking them."

"Leave everything to us," Adrian said, "You should probably change into some dry clothes and sit down for a few minutes. You look like you've gone into shock. Did the paramedics check you out?"

Danielle shook her head. "No, I'm just cold. I haven't had a chance to change clothes yet."

"You can change now," I said.

* * *

I had to admit that the Hossack house looked very nice, almost as nice as our penthouse. There was about 1400 square feet on this floor, and it looked very cozy, with lots of fluffy pillows on every piece of furniture and numerous paintings, mostly of landscapes, on the walls.

We drifted across the living room to the French doors that led to the backyard. There was a lap pool in the yard, albeit a narrow and short one, surrounded by a bricked patio. I could see two chaise longues, plus a bottle of Scotch and a drinking glass on the tiny table between them. There was also a folded towel on one of the chaise longues and a copy of the _San Francisco Chronicle_ on it.

But it was what was next to the pool that Adrian was attracted to. As Natalie and I stepped up to alongside him, we saw, lying on a gurney on the side of the pool, the dead body of a woman who looked to be maybe two or three years older than Danielle.

Danielle followed our gaze. "I—I don't know how it happened. It must have happened while I was asleep."

"It isn't your fault," Natalie said.

"I'd just come down to start preparing breakfast," Danielle said, "And I looked out in the backyard, and there was Denise. I tried to save her. I dove into the pool, but by the time I fished her out, it was too late."

"It was probably too late before you even got out there," Adrian said, "Don't blame yourself."

Natalie put her arm around Danielle's wet shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze.

"You should get into some dry clothes and probably get some fluids in your body," Natalie said. She waved over one of the officers. "Hey, officer?"

The cop came over while Danielle trudged up to her bedroom.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Miss Hossack needs something to drink," Natalie said, "Could you possibly brew her some coffee?"

"Yes, Miss Teeger," the officer replied.

"Thanks," Natalie said. She sighed. "Well, let's see what happened to Denise."

* * *

We walked outside to the huddle of police officers standing near the pool looking at the body and taking notes. Denise Hossack was wearing a one piece bathing suit, and her eyes and mouth were wide open, like the reaction to seeing something _very_ terrifying. It was the look I would have if I came across Jason Voorhees when he was not wearing his hockey mask, or someone who's just met Freddy Kreuger for the first time. There was a bloodless gash on her scalp.

Dr. Daniel Hetzer, the coroner, was doing his notes. He was a nice man, married with three kids, although he had a bald patch on his head and two days worth of stubble on his pale cheeks.

"Well, what do you think happened to this girl, doctor?" I asked him.

"Right now I'd say that this is a drowning," he said, "You see this tearing in the conjunctiva of her corneas?"

"Yeah, I see that," Adrian said.

"What about the injury on her head?" Natalie asked.

"I'd say that from the pattern she struck her head on the bottom of the pool," Dr. Hetzer said, "She may have been intoxicated when she did so."

"How do you know-" Adrian started to ask, then he noticed the wine glass and bottle of scotch by the side of the pool.

"Oh, so we've got an SUI case," he said. The three of us chuckled.

"Swimming under the influence," I cracked a smile.

"Too bad we can't arrest her for it," Adrian replied.

"What time would this have happened around?" Natalie asked.

"Sometime last night, I'd guess," Dr. Hetzer said, "Probably around eleven o'clock. But the body's been immersed in water, so we're just guesstimating."

Adrian, Natalie and I observed the body. The forensics techs continued snapping photos and the officers continued writing notes. Adrian glanced multiple times from the body over to the pool, and back.

"She didn't hit her head on the bottom of this pool," Adrian said, "At least not accidentally."

"It's murder?" I asked.

"Of course it is," Adrian said. He leaned down and held up his hands as he examined Denise's face. "I mean, I find it odd that a woman would go swimming with her contact lenses on. Most people I know of remove their contacts or put goggles over their eyes instead."

"Adrian, I think she had been drinking," Natalie said, pointing to the bottle of scotch and glass on the table.

"That's not a waterproof watch, either," he said.

"I've showered with my watch on while sober," I said, displaying my wristwatch, "But this is a waterproof one."

"Kendra, I know that's waterproof," Adrian said, "I bought that for your birthday last year."

"That's not exactly proof of murder," Natalie said.

"Maybe so, but there is other evidence here," he said, "Like this."

Adrian walked over to the edge of the pool, grabbed his tweezers, and grabbed a tiny piece of red wood, about one inch long, floating on the surface of the water.

"Tan bark," Natalie said.

"There is tan bark in the flower beds out front, and none out back here," he said. "How did it get into the backyard pool?"

There was a momentary pause due to the noise of a bus going by on Presidio Boulevard.

"Well how did it get there?" I asked.

"When we were walking in, I noticed a small depression in the front bed of bark next to the walkway where a beach rock had been removed. I'm betting ten bucks that this rock is behind the bushes on the other side of the pool, and it's still wet from being in the water."

Adrian, Natalie and I walked around the pool to the bush in question, up against the fence marking the edge of the property line. Natalie leaned down on her knees, peered underneath the bush, and said, "I think I've found it."

Natalie reached under the bush, and pulled out a smooth beach rock. She sniffed it.

"It smells like it's been cleaned with chlorine," she said.

"Here's what I'm thinking happened," Adrian said, "Last night, the killer showed up at this house. He picked up the rock, and planted it in his pants pocket before Denise answered the door. He talked her into having drinks with him – no surprise there, considering that he must have been someone she knew. Once she was plastered enough, he struck her over the head with the rock. He then dragged her over to the pool and forcibly held her head underwater, drowning her. After cleaning off the rock, washing away any mud, blood, or bark that had accumulated on it, he redressed the body in a swimsuit and tossed it into the pool."

This had the stunning effect of causing a complete silence to fall on the patio, as every cop in the backyard had stopped to listen to him.

"So, how do we know the killer and the victim were drinking together?" I asked.

"He wouldn't put out a bottle of alcohol and a drinking glass," Adrian said, "Unless he knew the autopsy would turn up alcohol in her bloodstream."

"She could have easily been drinking before he arrived," Natalie suggested.

"The tabletop is kind of dirty for that to be the case," Adrian said, pointing to the tine glass-topped table the glass and bottle were sitting on. "The second glass, which the killer also washed, cleaned and returned to the kitchen, left a noticeable ring mark on the table."

"She was killed by somebody she knew," I said.

"Exactly, Kendra," Adrian said, "I think that there might be more answers inside the house."

"Let's go check it out," I said to Natalie.

* * *

We now had a chance to examine the living room and the rest of the house thoroughly.

Adrian's attention was quickly drawn to some journals on a bookshelf on the opposite side of the living room from the backyard.

"There's a lot of dust here on this shelf," he said, pointing to the top shelf.

"Does that mean anything other than that she hasn't been up here in a while?" I asked.

"There's no dust in front of this one album," Adrian said, "Suggesting it was removed and replaced."

Adrian pulled out the album, and set it down on the coffee table.

"Do you recognize that scent?" he asked, sniffing.

"A scent?" Natalie asked. She scoffed. "Why would an album smell?"

"That's window cleaning spray," he said, "The cover and spine of this album have been sprayed and wiped clean of fingerprints."

"Why use window spray?" I asked.

"The killer probably wanted to be absolutely certain that he left no prints behind. Extra-precautionary if he was wearing gloves, which I think he was."

Adrian opened the album, which contained what appeared to be photos of various business establishments, held in place by a thin layer of transparent film that pressed them against the sticky surface of the next page.

"And he probably didn't want us to know what pages he looked at because they could reveal who he is," Adrian added.

"There could be incriminating pictures in here?" Natalie asked.

"Maybe," Adrian said, "Some of the pages in here are stuck together because he wiped them clean before he put the book back. These must be the photo pages that Denise showed him, the ones that he touched."

Considering how much buildup Adrian had just mentioned, I was hoping to see some pretty dramatic photos. But, to my disappointment, the only photos in there were various photos of the exteriors of certain known area businesses. And they weren't big businesses, but rather, small unassuming businesses, like a pawnshop, an exterminator's facility, and a food processing plant. They weren't exactly the kinds of photos anyone might keep around their house, and certainly not mine.

"So Denise took a bunch of photos of a bunch of random businesses in our city, and she showed these photos to whoever dropped by to murder her," Natalie said, "Does this even incriminate any one particular individual?"

"Whoever this person is, he seems to have picked key pages throughout this album rather than flip through it from cover to cover," Adrian said, "He only chose pictures that he thought had some significance to him."

"So what, or _who_ are we looking for?" I asked.

"I don't know, Kendra," Adrian said, "Maybe Danielle knows."

* * *

That was when Danielle returned from her bedroom wearing a white cloth bathrobe and slippers, and a towel wrapped around her head like it was a turban, ostensibly to dry off her hair.

"Hey, Danielle," Adrian said, "Are you feeling any better?"

"Much better, thank you very much," Danielle said, "Showers are like the lord's medicine for shock treatment."

"Listen, do you mind if we ask you a couple of questions?" Adrian asked.

"Can it wait?" Danielle asked. "I'm still in shock here."

"What kind of business was Denise involved in?" Adrian asked.

"She worked at _Bullseye_ ," Danielle said. "You know, that investigative newsmagazine. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing. We're just dotting our I's and crossing our t's," Adrian said.

"We found an album," Natalie said, "It was full of well, random photos of what appeared to be a number of businesses in the area."

"That?" Danielle asked, "I found that album. I asked Denise what the photos were for and she said they were part of an assignment she and Luke were working on."

"Who's Luke?" I asked.

"Her boyfriend Luke Reordan," Danielle said, "He's a fellow journalist of hers. They've been in a relationship for the last three years."

"You've met him?" Natalie asked.

"Yep," Danielle said, "Countless times."

"Do you have an idea of what story or stories Denise was working on at the time she was killed?" Adrian asked.

"Well now that you mention it," Danielle said, "She's asked me a bunch of questions pertaining to what I know about Intertect over the past few weeks. I thought it was strange, but I figured she was writing a story for _Bullseye_ and supplied her with what I knew. I didn't bother asking why she was so interested in Intertect."

"Out of curiosity, where does Luke Reordan live?" I asked.

"He lives in North Beach," Danielle said.

"Well thanks for the help," Adrian said, "Again, sorry for your loss. We should be in touch very soon, hopefully."

"Thanks," Danielle said, forcing a smile.

"Don't forget to drink that coffee, Danielle," Adrian said, pointing to the filled coffee mug on the kitchen counter, "We had one of the officers brew it just for you."

"Thanks," Danielle said. She made her way over to the kitchen. She wrapped her hands around the cup, blew on it, and took a sip.

I had to feel bad for Danielle. There was nothing else to talk about. I then got an idea.

"Hey, Danielle?" I approached Danielle as she finished drinking her coffee.

"Yes, Miss Davenport?" she asked, softly.

"I know Adrian didn't ask this, but if it's all right with you, would you be okay if we took this case _pro bono_?" I said, "You are technically in our employ and it occurred to me that you shouldn't pay back part of your salary to us."

Danielle stammered. "T-thanks, Miss Davenport," she said. "I was about to ask you if you could do just that as a personal favor to me."

"It's no big problem, Danielle," I said, forcing a small smile, "If it's okay with you, we'll also see if we can do anything to keep your sister's death out of the media."

"OK," Danielle said, "I definitely would appreciate that."

"It's mostly because of some personal reasons," I said, "We just think that you should have time to grieve without having to worry about there being satellite trucks parked in front of your house every day."

"I get it," Danielle said.

"Take care, Danielle," I said, joining Adrian and Natalie as they started for the front door.

* * *

 **A/N:** As you can see by Kendra's remark "Thank God it's not another President Underwood's re-election campaign call," this story shares a universe with the American version of _House of Cards_. It's not a crossover, though, because well, this is a _Monk_ story, not a _House of Monk_ story.


	5. Kwik-E-Mart robbery

**A/N:** This chapter is practically a full-length ode to _The Simpsons._ Just to give you a heads-up here...

* * *

We were just getting into our car and Natalie had just turned her key in the ignition when her cell phone rang.

"Yes?" she asked. She listened for a quick second. "OK, understood. We'll be right there." She flipped her phone shut.

"Got something, Natalie?" I asked.

"Nothing too serious. Uh, a Kwik-E-Mart at Geary and Van Ness just got robbed," Natalie said, "Someone shot the proprietor and made off with a couple hundred bucks."

Adrian gave me and Natalie looks.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to check this out," he said. "Let's get this one out of the way and then we can get to work investigating the death of Danielle's sister."

Natalie activated the siren on our Lexus and we rocketed away from the Hossack house at full speed.

* * *

The Kwik-E-Mart at Geary and Van Ness was flanked by an adult video store and a Tommy's Tacos store on the street level of a shabby four story building that was covered with what I estimated to be approximately fifty shades of grime. There were hand painted posters in the Kwik-E-Mart's windows advertising Squishees, cigarettes, and Gold Rush Lottery tickets.

There was a clerk standing outside the store leaning against the wall and nervously smoking a cigarette. She had to be in her early thirties, wearing faded jeans and a green Kwik-E-Mart clerk's vest over a long sleeved white t-shirt. She had dark circles under her eyes that looked as ingrained on her face as the grime on the rest of the building.

She was being interviewed by a uniformed patrol cop who appeared to be in his early fifties, and a little bit overweight, as it looked like his gut was bursting out over the edge of his pants and straining the buttons on his shirt. He had his notepad out and was making some notations on it with a very stubby pencil. When he saw our Lexus drive up, he stopped what he was doing and approached us.

"You in charge here, Sergeant Skinner?" Adrian asked. He only had to look at the stripes on the officer's shoulders to identify him as a sergeant, and the cop's nametag to get his name.

"Yes, I am," Sergeant Skinner said.

"What's happened here?" I asked.

"A couple of black guys came in and held up the place while the employees were preparing to open the store for the day," Skinner said, "The cashier, who is also the owner, emptied the cash register and gave them all the money, but they shot him anyways."

"Good lord," Natalie said, "Some people really are coldhearted."

"The deceased's name is Apu Nahasapeemapetilon, 41 years old," Skinner said.

"Apu Naha….alive?" I asked. I laughed. "Boy, that name sounds like a mouthful."

Adrian tipped his head towards the woman. "And who is she?"

"That's Lorna Lyons, age 32, works as the day clerk," Skinner said, referring to his notes, "She was in the back storeroom when the whole thing went down. Claims she came out to investigate when she heard the shots and saw two African-American male subjects leaving the premises."

"There's a stain on the cuff of her right sleeve," Adrian asked, looking at Lyons.

"Yeah, so?" Skinner asked.

"You might consider asking her to explain it," Adrian replied, bluntly, "Who knows? It might mean something, but then again it might not."

"Who called the cops, sergeant?" I asked.

"She did," Skinner said, gesturing to Lyons, "So did the guy running the taco place next door."

"Security tapes?" I asked.

Skinner shook his head. "Negative. The clerk says that the recorder broke on Sunday. The owner was going to buy a new one today."

I smiled and looked at Adrian and Natalie.

"Pretty convenient, in my opinion," I said.

"Thanks, sergeant," Adrian said, "We'd like to take a look inside. Nothing's been touched, I assume?"

"No, sir," Skinner said.

"Thanks," Adrian said.

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I walked into the store. The cashier's counter was to the right of the front door, facing the four cramped aisles for groceries and the refrigerators and freezers that lined the rear of the store. The cash register was open, and emptied.

The three of us peered over the counter. Apu Nahasapeemapetilon's body was crumpled in the tight space between the counter and the wall, with a bullet wound in the center of his chest, and his head had come to a rest against the side of the trash can. He was wearing a Kwik-E-Mart vest over a Manchester United shirt.

Adrian cocked his head, as something had caught his eye. He walked around the counter, produced a pen from his pocket, and used it to lift an open box of Ziploc bags from the trash can. He set them down on the counter.

"What's so important about these Ziplocs, Adrian?" Natalie asked.

"Why would someone open a box of these, takes maybe a handful of them out, and throw the rest away?" Adrian asked. "That's kinda wasteful."

"Maybe that's why these two guys robbed him and killed him," I said. My smile broadened into a grin. "Punishment for wasting Ziploc bags."

"I wish," Adrian said. He pulled me in and kissed me. He then turned away from me and looked back in the trash can and something else caught his eye. It appeared to be an open box of aluminum foil, with most of the roll still intact.

"Somebody has been wasting a lot of perfectly usable aluminum foil," Adrian said. He walked to the back of the store and stopped in front of the door that led to the storeroom. There was a handwritten sign that said "No Public Restrooms In This Store". He stared at the sign for a long moment, then turned to look at the front counter, then turned to look at us.

"Ah! I've got it, ladies!" Adrian said, "I think I know what happened here."

I didn't think there was anything mysterious about this little robbery, except the identities of the two robbers. But it was no surprise to either of us that Adrian had already figured it out.

* * *

Natalie and I followed Adrian out to where Sergeant Skinner was interviewing Lorna Lyons. We exited just as she flicked her cigarette stub onto the sidewalk and ground it in with her heel.

"Excuse me, Miss Lyons?" Adrian asked. "I'm Inspector Adrian Monk, and this is Kendra Davenport and Natalie Teeger. Can you tell us what you were doing right before the shots?"

"I was in the backroom, like I told him," she said, gesturing to Sergeant Skinner, "I was unpacking a box of nacho-cheese Doritos so that they could be put on the shelves."

"What were you doing before that?" I asked.

"Unpacking drink cups and stacking them by the Squishee machine," Lyons said.

"Uh-huh," Adrian said. He leaned forward and sniffed her. She probably would have taken a step back from him if it weren't for the wall behind her. "And what did you do after you heard the shots?"

"I opened the door and these two big black guys were running out the door," Lyons replied, "They were both wearing puffy jackets, you know, like the kind that rappers wear? And one of the guys was carrying a gun in his hand."

"Then what did you do?" Natalie asked.

"I rushed up to the counter to check on Mr. Nahasapeemapetilon," Lyons replied, "I called 911 on my cell, and sat beside him, holding his hand until the police could get here."

"You didn't go anywhere else?" I asked.

"Of course not," Lyons answered, "I was comforting him. The man was dying right there in my own arms. I wasn't going to leave him alone."

"That's very touching," Adrian said, "Speaking of which, did you know you smell like a toilet?"

"What did you just say to me?" Lyons asked.

"Uh, you smell of toilet bowl cleaner," Adrian said, "And that stain on the sleeve of your shirt looks like it came from something like Spring Meadow washing solution."

"Are you accusing me of something?" Lyons asked.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "You shot your own boss."

"You're a lunatic," Lyons said.

"A lunatic?" Adrian asked. "You talking to me or to Kendra? Kendra's the lunatic of the three of us." I smiled at Adrian.

"You said you were in the storeroom unpacking boxes when the robbery happened and you stayed at your boss's side until the police showed up," I said, "When did you stain your sleeve?"

"Earlier," Lyons answered, "When I was cleaning up."

"When?" Adrian pressed.

"Before I unpacked the Doritos," she answered.

"You said you were putting out cups by the Squishee machine before that," Adrian said.

"I was," Lyons said, "And before that I was cleaning the bathroom. What difference does it make?"

"The difference is between guilt and innocence," Adrian said, "Here's what you were really doing: there were no robbers. You shot your own boss, you emptied the cash register and then you called 911. You wrapped the gun and the money in aluminum foil, sealed them up in waterproof Ziploc bags, and stashed them in the tank for the toilet, and you stained the end of your sleeve there in the colored water. If you hadn't left such a perfectly usable box of Ziploc bags or a full roll of foil in the trash, you could have probably gotten away with this."

"You can't believe that man's crazy story!" Lyons said to Sergeant Skinner.

"It wouldn't be hard to check," Skinner said, "I've been itching to answer nature's call for the last half hour anyways."

Sergeant Skinner started towards the front door of the store.

"I want my lawyer," Lyons said, "I'm not saying another word."

"Natalie, cuff her," Adrian said.

"With pleasure," Natalie said.

Natalie promptly secured Lyons's arms behind her back with a set of cable ties.

"You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah," Natalie said. She shoved Lyons over to Sergeant Skinner. "Get her out of here."

Sergeant Skinner led Lyons over to one of the patrol cars parked in the lot.

* * *

"That was really amazing, Adrian," I said as we drove away from the store. I was sitting with Adrian in the backseat while Natalie drove. We were now on our way to North Beach to question Luke Reordan about Denise Hossack's death.

"I am always amazing, Kendra," Adrian said.

"Speaking of amazing," I said, "I wanted to uh…" I quickly pulled him in for a slow, but passionate kissing session. It was a pretty normal thing that I would French my husband if he solved a case on the spot. I thought it was romantic.

"Oh, you two lovebirds should get a room already," Natalie said from the front seat, sounding mildly amused.


	6. The Reordan Paradigm

Luke Reordan's apartment was located in North Beach at the top of a hill, on the southwest corner of Green and Montgomery Streets, in a location that was actually visible from our bedrooms. North Beach is nowhere near the beach, but don't get a native San Franciscan started on that. The rent for an apartment in this neighborhood was probably enough to set a working class civilian back twice as much as a mortgage payment. We arrived there shortly after leaving the Kwik-E-Mart and used the directory to look up Reordan's apartment. Following this, we headed up the stairs and knocked on the door.

"Luke Reordan?" I asked, "This is Intertect Investigations. Can you open the door, sir?"

We waited for a minute, but there was no response.

"Wait, this lock looks like it's been picked," Adrian said. He pointed to the door lock. I narrowed my eyes to take a closer look. Sure enough, it looked like there were scratch marks around the keyhole.

"We've got to check this out," I said. I reached under my vest-jacket and pulled out my primary pistol. Adrian and Natalie reached under their coats and grabbed their pistols.

Adrian used his free hand to push the door open.

The door revealed an apartment furnished in a style that I like to describe as 'Contemporary Single Guy'. That is to say, every piece of furniture was big, black, and upholstered in leather. The living room, which this apartment's entry door opened onto, was dominated by an altar to Tim Cook, the corporate god of electronics – a massive plasma-screen TV surrounded by stacks of gaming devices. I could pick out a PlayStation, an Xbox, a Blu-Ray player, a TiVo, a Wii, satellite receiver, cable box, and amplifier. There were a bunch of other devices there too that I didn't even know the names of.

The coffee table in front of the TV was covered in electronics like an ASUS laptop, a Kindle Fire, a smartphone, a dozen TV remotes, a smattering of men's lifestyle magazines like _Maxim, Men's Health_ and _Stuff_ , and empty cans of Mountain Dew and Red Bull. It was quite a mess.

And, lying sideways on the couch, was Luke Reordan. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. He had congealed grease in his hair that was also splattered all over the couch, the coffee table, and the carpets.

"Okay," I said, "I think he's a little too dead to talk to us about Denise, Adrian."

"Yeah, dead men don't exactly tell tales, Kendra," Adrian said. "Natalie, you better call this in." Natalie sighed and took out her cell phone to dial 911.

"911, what is your emergency?" the dispatcher asked.

"Yeah, hi, this is Natalie Teeger, SFPD," she said, "Got a suspected 187 here, Apartment 2D, Montgomery and Green, southwest corner."

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I were standing behind the couch, looking at the body. The apartment was now crawling with police officers and forensic technicians, who were busy dusting and photographing and bagging evidence. They kind of were like the Oompa-Loompas from _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_ only not as creepy or as musical.

"This is never right," Adrian said, "And it can't be coincidental: Denise Hossack drowns, and the same night, her boyfriend is murdered."

"So what are you saying?" I asked.

"That the same individual could be responsible for both crimes," Adrian said. "So, what do we know about Reordan?"

"Well, he's like his girlfriend, he worked at _Bullseye_ ," Natalie said, "So he, like Denise, was a journalist who wrote stories that uncovered political corruption, unethical and shady business practices, etc."

I looked at Reordan.

"Must be a nice occupation," I said, "How else would he afford an apartment in this neighborhood?"

That train of thought did lead me to an obvious suspect: whoever he was investigating.

I had to feel that it couldn't have been more obvious. We're police detectives and we make a lot of enemies. My dad says that goes with the territory. And I knew that being an investigative journalist was just as dangerous, if not more dangerous, than being a cop. I remembered just how many investigative journalists were executed on camera by the Islamic State in the previous year (why? I don't know. I never fully understood ISIS or their motives, which is true, even to this day) and Natalie, Adrian and I were also very familiar with rumors that the current President of the United States had shoved a journalist in front of a Washington Metro train because she was making inquiries about his involvement in the suicide by carbon monoxide poison of a Pennsylvania congressman.

I noticed Adrian looking at me. "I know what you're thinking, Kendra. I'm thinking the same thing." He looked at Natalie. "How about you?"

"I'm not sure," Natalie said, "I mean, it definitely sounds plausible, but it could have been more personal, like, a spurned girlfriend or something."

* * *

Adrian approached the coroner who was looking over Reordan's body.

"What do you think is the most likely cause of death, doc?" Adrian asked.

"Looks like severe blunt trauma to the head with a frying pan," the coroner said, "That's my guess based on the shape of this wound here and the splatter pattern of cooking grease around this area."

"There must have still been some grease left over in the pan from whatever Reordan last used the pan for," Adrian said. He turned to the inspector who'd shown up on scene.

"Do we have any prints off the frying pan, Landau?" Adrian said.

"No, we don't," Landau said, "Looks like the killer probably put it through the dishwasher."

He pointed to the kitchen, which was spotlessly clean compared to the rest of the apartment. The counters gleamed; everything was neatly arranged, and even the dishrags were neatly hung up on the rack. It looked more like an operating room than anything.

"Any trace evidence on the frying pan or the devices he used to clean it - scrub pan, brush, y'know - was washed away," Landau said.

"Well, check the drains and pipes, you may have missed something," I said.

Adrian shook his head. "We won't find anything. This is clearly the work of a professional."

"Or an avid viewer of _CSI,_ " Natalie said.

"Natalie, don't you dare mention that show again," Adrian said, "I honestly sometimes want to kill the guy who had the idea to create a show that teaches criminals how to avoid getting caught."

"Sorry, Adrian," Natalie smiled, meekly.

"How would the killer get into the building?" I asked.

"He probably was let into the building by Reordan," Adrian said, "I think Reordan was probably cooking something when the killer showed up, which would explain why there's grease from the frying pan all over the body and the room."

"I'm trying to picture what you're saying right now," I said, putting my right hand to my forehead and closing my eyes. "Oh, I see it. They must chatted for a few minutes. He says something, provokes the killer, who strikes him with the frying pan and then uses the dishwasher to destroy his prints."

"And then he goes into the study to destroy any research Reordan had done," Adrian said.

"What?" I asked.

He went into what I presumed was Reordan's study.

"This guy is an investigative journalist, yet, where is all his writing?" Adrian asked. "There are pencils and papers all over this desk here, and he's got a printer…" which he pointed to, "….but nothing with writing on it. And where in the world is his computer?"

Adrian motioned to a charger in the wall.

"The killer must have taken the laptop and destroyed it," I said.

"And burned his papers," Adrian said. "If you looked in the fireplace under the TV, there were a bunch of paper clips, staples, and even the spiral rings from his notebooks."

I could see what he was going at: somebody broke into the apartment, beat Reordan to death, and destroyed whatever he was writing.

"What about the picked lock?" I asked.

"I think the killer picked it before he left to give the impression that he had to break in," Adrian.

"So what can we do from here?" I asked. "I mean, we've got Denise Hossack dead, we've got Luke Reordan dead. Who do we talk to now?"

"I think we need to talk to his boss," Adrian said, "He or she probably knows what story Reordan and his girlfriend were working on at the time of their deaths."

"That sounds like a good idea," Natalie said.

"Let's highball, then," Adrian said.

"Absolutely," Natalie said.


	7. Bullseye and Shocking Revelations

Luke Reordan worked at _Bullseye,_ which was headquartered on the fourth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid. Upon arrival, we told the front desk that we were detectives from the San Francisco Police Department and wanted to have a meeting with Reordan's boss. It didn't take long to get sent through to the boss, Miss Nikki Nemzer.

Nikki Nemzer worked in an office on the west side of the building. She had long dark hair, pale skin, black pants, and a loose white blouse, which made her blend very seamlessly into the walls and furniture of her office, which was about as monochrome as she was. She must have been like a ghost when she sat at her desk, even with the window behind it that looked out onto Montgomery Street and Columbus Avenue below.

"You must be Adrian Monk," she said, "I'm Nikki Nemzer, I'm the senior editor here."

"Nice to meet you," Adrian said, "This is Natalie Teeger and Kendra Davenport."

"How do you do?" I said, shaking Nikki's hand.

"I almost feel like this is a dream come true, you being in my office," Nikki said to Adrian, "Your reputation really precedes you, Mr. Monk."

"It does?" Adrian asked.

"Well you make the front page of the papers a lot," Nikki replied, "And the guys you've taken down sure do enough on their own to produce lots of headlines."

"Thank you," Adrian said.

"So what can I do for you three?" she asked.

"I understand that you expose lots of political corruption and business mismanagement," I said, "Is that where your name, ' _Bullseye',_ comes from?"

"Yeah, that's true. We name ourselves for the fact that we have our sights set on exposing white collar corruption," Nikki said, "We expose the bribery, dishonesty, and greed and public officials and corporate executives."

"You must never run out of stories to tell," Natalie said.

"That's true," Nikki said, "It's also great business for us because it creates great circulation numbers and sells copies. People just love it when we take down the rich, the mighty, and the sanctimonious scum who think they are above the law and get away with making the weak suffer. But I'm assuming you're not here to talk to me about this magazine's name."

"That's true," Adrian said, "We're here because two of your journalists, Luke Reordan and Denise Hossack, have been murdered."

"They've been murdered?" Nikki asked. She looked crestfallen. "Oh, dear god."

"Yeah, we're really sorry we had to tell you that," Natalie said.

"How did they die?" Nikki asked.

"Both of them were killed last night," Adrian said, "Someone drowned Denise in her swimming pool and this same individual or someone working with him beat Luke to death with a frying pan."

"Jeez," Nikki said, "So what do you know so far?"

"Why do I get the feeling that you're interviewing us at the same time that we're interviewing you?" Natalie asked.

"You're talking to a reporter, Miss Teeger," Nikki said, "I don't talk to people unless I think there's a story in it. What kind of story do you have?"

"There's whatever story that Reordan and Denise were working on when they were killed," Adrian said.

"We know they were working on a story," Natalie said, "Whoever killed Reordan burned all his notes and took his computer, and whoever killed Denise apparently stole a bunch of photos from her house."

"That's correct. They actually were working on a story," Nikki said, "A big one actually. At least, they told me they thought it was really big."

"What was it?" I asked.

Nikki grimaced as if the knowledge caused her physical pain. "They were investigating a private investigator based here in the city."

"It wasn't me, was it?" Adrian asked. "I mean, we never of these two victims until their bodies were discovered."

"No, Mr. Monk, they were investigating the Irish CEO of big private investigation slash security firm operating in the SoMa area."

The person she was describing seemed very familiar. A name immediately came to Adrian's mind.

"Douglas O'Donnell?" Adrian asked.

"That's right," Nikki said, nodding her head, "How do you know that?"

"Because that man hired us yesterday to work for him," Adrian said. "Back on the matter of the case, what was Luke and Denise's interest in Mr. O'Donnell?"

"Luke and Denise were convinced that the man was a fraud and a gangster."

"Did you buy their claims?" I asked.

"I didn't care one way or the other," she said, "As far as I was concerned, Douglas O'Donnell is just the CEO of a large private investigation firm, and a very benevolent one at that."

"What do you mean, benevolent?" Natalie asked.

"He runs a private investigation and security firm, sure, but he's also a big member of his community," Nikki said, "The guy makes multimillion dollar donations to numerous charities supporting the families of law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty every year. He also donates to charities that provide support to homeless people."

"We've heard of some of these charities," Adrian said.

"At any rate, Denise, at least, had this opinion that Douglas O'Donnell's credentials were fake, that he's spun a great lie about his police career or something like that," Nikki said. "I did pay attention to it, somewhat."

"Doesn't your magazine expose criminals?" Natalie asked.

"We expose those in positions of power and authority, who abuse their power for money, sex, money and sex, or gain of any kind," Nikki replied, "A possibly fraudulent private investigator tricking people into hiring him to solve their problems isn't exactly the most newsworthy story for our audience."

"But I take it Reordan and Denise thought something was up," Adrian said.

"Denise's sister Danielle works at Intertect as a private investigator," Nikki said.

"Yeah, we know that, she is actually working for us," I said.

"So you think this had a potentially personal angle to it?" Adrian asked. "That they were investigating Intertect because of Danielle?"

"I'm a reporter," Nikki said, "I wanted to know why Luke and Denise, especially Denise, were so interested with the Intertect CEO. It was like they were desperate to find any dirt on O'Donnell possible, which is why I was somewhat skeptical about the latest angle the two of them tried to deploy."

"Did they find out something else about Douglas O'Donnell?" Adrian asked.

"Yeah," Nikki said, "In the latest angle, Denise alleged that O'Donnell was in fact a criminal mastermind who orchestrated the downfall of other big companies in order to increase his wealth."

"Oh, jeez," I said, sounding a bit surprised, "So she thought the CEO was engaged in white collar fraud while simultaneously painting himself as a pillar of the law enforcement community. Isn't that a newsworthy story? This is up there with the founder of Los Pollos Hermanos down in Albuquerque being outed as a crystal meth kingpin."

"If there was a lot of money involved, which Denise and Luke naturally said there was: tens of millions of dollars. But they'd say anything to get me to run a story on the CEO. That's why I insisted on Luke and Denise showing me some really hard evidence to support their charges. They promised me that they would."

"But you never saw it," Adrian said.

"Probably because it didn't exist," she said.

"Not anymore," Natalie said, "Whoever killed them stole their computer and burned their notes."

"So if they had anything on Mr. O'Donnell, it's been destroyed," Adrian said.

"Did they produce any names from their accusations?" Natalie asked.

"They didn't," Nikki said, "Or if they did, it was all in their notes, the notes you say have been destroyed."

"This theoretically could have been carried out on orders of Douglas O'Donnell if your explanation of what Luke was looking into is correct," Adrian said. He turned to me and Natalie. "I don't suppose we should take our findings to the police station, shall we, ladies?"

"I have to think so, Adrian," Natalie said.

"I second the notion," I said.

"Let's do that," Adrian said. He turned back to Nikki. "Thanks for your time, Miss Nemzer. We'll find who killed Luke Reordan, and if indeed Intertect killed him and Denise Hossack to silence a witness to business corruption, we'll be sure to bring back any evidence to you."

* * *

My dad's office at the police headquarters on Third Street, just south and on the other side of the drawbridge from AT&T Park, is a fairly modest office. There's a desk, a couch positioned in front of a coffee table, and a couple of chairs in front of the desk.

"Hey, dad," I said as we walked in.

"Kendra, Adrian, Natalie, what a nice surprise," my dad got up to give me a hug, "I heard you guys just busted a convenience store robber on Van Ness."

"You heard right," Natalie said.

My dad sat back down in his chair.

"Do you guys, like, need something?" my dad asked. "Because we haven't got any fresh murder cases that need your input, aside from Luke Reordan."

"Actually, it's a double homicide," Adrian said, "His girlfriend was drowned last night as well."

"Denise Hossack," my dad said, "I know, we've been checking the phone records all day."

"We think we know who killed them," Adrian said.

"Who?" my dad asked.

"Intertect's CEO," Natalie said, "Douglas O'Donnell."

"Really?" my dad asked. "Why are you saying this to me?"

"We just spoke to Nikki Nemzer, their editor. She says that Luke and Denise were working a joint investigation into Douglas O'Donnell," Adrian said, "She claims that they were investigating O'Donnell for what they claimed were ties between O'Donnell and organized crime. Something about him being engaged in white collar fraud."

"Really?" my dad said. "That sounds nothing like the Douglas O'Donnell I'm familiar with."

"You mean, the one that gives to charities benefitting the families of fallen officers and homeless people? That Douglas O'Donnell?" Adrian asked.

"Yeah," my dad said, "There's no way he could be involved in criminal activity."

"Luke Reordan and Denise Hossack would probably respectfully disagree," I said.

"Is there anything that you can think of that perhaps qualifies as admissible evidence linking O'Donnell to these crimes?" my dad asked. "Landau says that all of Reordan's notes were burned and his laptop stolen, so if there was any proof that he was investigating O'Donnell, it's been reduced to ashes."

"Not that we can think of," Adrian said, "Which reminds me, ladies, that we need to get Danielle to put O'Donnell under surveillance."

"Look, don't get me wrong, Adrian, I have to admit it, when you're right about someone being a criminal, you usually are," my dad said, "But I don't have the freedom to explore leads based on one person's word. I have to more or less work based on what the chief orders us to do."

"Geez, you can't find a way to work around the chief?" I asked.

My dad ran his hands through his hair. "Unfortunately, no. But look, I'll tell Captain Stottlemeyer and if he thinks there's enough evidence to start an investigation, well, I'll be able to start digging into Douglas O'Donnell's background. There might not be anything I can get to you until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

"What can we do?" Natalie asked.

"Once we've done a complete background check on O'Donnell, provided that the Captain approves, well, then we can move in," my dad said, "That probably won't be until tomorrow at the earliest."

"Well that's a start," Adrian said. "I guess the ladies and I will be on our way then. Take care, Kendrick."

"I promise you, I will call if any leads come up."

"Thank you," I said, and with that, we left the office.

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I spent the rest of the day at our penthouse. I passed the afternoon watching _Frozen_ with Natalie. Adrian spent the time on Facebook getting in touch with many of his cop buddies from across the country. Over dinner, we talked a bit about what Adrian's cop friends in New York, Chicago, Boston, and Los Angeles were dealing with, and we talked a little bit about the two murders.

"You know, I have to admit it, this notion that Douglas O'Donnell is secretly a big criminal mastermind frankly sounds very plausible to me," Adrian said to me and Natalie over dinner, "I mean, all this stuff about him being a friend to law enforcement and big donor to police charities sounds like something out of _Art of War_ : 'Keep your friends closer and your enemies closer.'"

"I have to agree, Adrian," I said, "A guy like O'Donnell has the money to be financing an operation without questions being raised."

"Indeed," Adrian said, "If O'Donnell is engaged in criminal activity, what better way to distract people from said illegal business than to mask under the guise of a charitable philanthropist who gives back to his community? Kendra, I think you were right when you said that this guy could practically be the reincarnation of Gus Fring."

After dinner, I was about ready to settle down for a bath when my phone rang.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Hi, Miss Davenport, it's Danielle," Danielle Hossack said.

"Danielle, this is a bit of a surprise," I said. "How's it going?"

"Have you or Miss Teeger or Mr. Monk heard from Luke? I'm getting worried. He's not answering his phone."

"I wouldn't know why he's not picking up, Danielle," I lied, "He probably is dropping off the radar because he's afraid he'll be targeted. We'll come by tomorrow if anything comes up."

I tested the bath water with my free hand. "Listen, Danielle, I've got to go, but we'll keep looking into your sister's death. As I said, we'll come by tomorrow morning with a progress report. Take care."

"Bye," she said.

With that, I settled in for a nice long bath with one of my favorite mystery writers: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Yeah, it's not the most thrilling bubble-bath reading material, but at the very least, it stimulated my intellectual mind.

As I climbed into bed and rested my head on my pillow, I thought briefly about Luke Reordan, Denise Hossack, and Douglas O'Donnell. The realization that the man who'd hired us to work for his company was in fact possibly engaged in criminal activities was a bit unsettling, but at the same time, at least for me, quite exciting. I thought about what tomorrow would bring. I hoped that tomorrow, my dad's background check on Douglas O'Donnell would produce enough red flags to warrant opening an investigation, or barring that, another murder. Little did I know that in truth, tomorrow, this case was going to take the first of several dark turns.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, as you can tell from the dialogue at the police station, even though Kendra Davenport's dad takes the role that was done by Captain Stottlemeyer and Lieutenant Disher in the original show, Stottlemeyer and Disher still exist. They both still exist in this AU work, even having the same SFPD ranks, although their roles are reduced here. For the most part, Stottlemeyer handles cases that aren't officially being led by Kendra's dad.


	8. The Great Davenport Armored Car Robbery

**August 4th, 2016:**

Adrian, Natalie and I woke up on that beautiful Wednesday morning refreshed and resolved. As I showered, I thought it was actually quite exciting to think that our new boss was in fact a cold-blooded murderer, a modern Professor James Moriarty. That kind of stuff excites me all the time, usually to 'I have to make out with Adrian to quell my excitement' levels. When Natalie and I arrived in the dining room, we found Adrian looking through the photos in a case file.

"Is that a file on Douglas O'Donnell?" Natalie asked.

"No, it's not," Adrian said, "Background checks take a while and Kendra's dad hasn't called us. So I'm just checking out this case from that big pile o' files that O'Donnell gave us on Monday when he hired us."

"Why are you looking at those cases?" I asked. "I thought you said you wouldn't touch those."

"Because, Kendra, I might as well stimulate my mind until your dad has background information on O'Donnell," Adrian said.

Adrian opened the file and flipped through the pictures. The pictures were of a dead man sitting in a leather easy chair in his home study. He had a knife buried to the hilt in his chest. He looked like he was in his mid-forties and very well-off, judging from his monogrammed shirt and the wood-paneled study where he'd died.

"So what's this case?" I asked.

"It's an unsolved home-invasion robbery and homicide that happened six months ago in Oakland," Adrian said, "His name was Lewis Wickersham."

"I think I remember him from the news," Natalie said. "Someone stabbed him to death in his study in the midst of a home invasion and then made off with a lot of jewelry, if I remember, right?"

"Worth about $750,000," Adrian said, "Last I ever heard, the cops still haven't caught the culprits although they're pretty sure that they know who is responsible for this. This guy Wickersham was apparently in considerable debt to a bunch of very unfriendly people. The cops believe those people probably lost patience and came to collect. Very violently, I might say."

There were close-up photos of Wickersham's wound, the knife itself, a bloodstained handkerchief on the floor, a cut on his right hand, a broken window, shards of glass from said window on the rug, and the ransacked study. There were even some police photos of the rest of the house, which had also been thoroughly ransacked.

"So why don't they arrest the culprits responsible?" Natalie asked.

"Natalie, it's not exactly rocket science that you can't arrest someone unless you have enough evidence to solidly place someone at the scene of the crime or prove that they were involved in the crime," Adrian said, "For one thing, the knife used to stab him was wiped clean of fingerprints. The police believed that the killer or killers may have been wearing gloves, and it was also wiped clean, just in case. The case went cold. So Mr. Wickersham's wife, who was in Paris at the time, hired Intertect to investigate."

"And what is your take on this, Adrian?" I asked.

"Mine?" Adrian said, "If I had to take a guess, Kendra, it's that this is not a murder nor a home invasion."

Natalie and I looked baffled.

"What is it then, Adrian?" Natalie asked.

"Suicide," Adrian said. He passed us a couple of photos.

"Look at this. Wickersham was stabbed through the heart while reclining in a easy chair. That doesn't make sense."

"Why not?" Natalie asked.

"Based on the official version of the story, he walked in on robbers, and they attacked him. But if that was the case, his body would probably be on the floor in a facedown position, not sitting upright in a chair. Plus, if he was attacked from in front, why are there no defensive wounds on the body?"

"There's a cut on his hand," I said, pointing to a different picture.

"It's on the back of his hand," Adrian said, "If he grabbed for the knife, the wound would be across his palm. Plus the cut is superficial."

"You're saying that Wickersham stabbed himself," Natalie said.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "This man sat down in his favorite chair in his favorite room, and plunged a knife into his own heart."

"Then why are his fingerprints not on the knife?" Natalie asked.

"He held it with the handkerchief on the floor," Adrian said, "According to the police report, it was assumed that the killers used the handkerchief to grip the knife and the spot of blood they found on the floor was blood spatter from the chest wound. It didn't. The blood came from the cut on his hand."

"How did he get that, then?" I asked. "The cut, I mean."

"When he broke the glass on the French doors to the study," Adrian said, "He ransacked the house to hide the fact that he'd sold his wife's jewelry and everything of value to pay off the loan sharks while she was away. It wasn't enough and he knew he was only buying some time. The best hope he had was to secure his wife a comfortable life. So he staged a home invasion and committed suicide in a way that looked like murder so his wife would collect on his life insurance policy."

"Wow," I said, "He sacrificed himself for her, for nothing."

"She won't be seeing a penny of that money," Natalie said.

"So, Adrian, should we tell the widow the truth or not?" I asked.

"If we notify her, we'd have to suggest she notify the police first because cashing the insurance company's check otherwise could be considered a criminal offense."

"OK, I get it," I said.

That was when Natalie's phone rang.

"Hello?" she asked.

"It's Kendrick," my dad said, "Where are you guys?"

"We're at the penthouse," Natalie said, "Have you got that background check on Douglas O'Donnell done yet?"

"Almost," my dad said, "Uh, would you like to meet me in person to discuss it?"

"Sure," Natalie said, "I assume you're calling about that?"

"No, actually, I was calling you 'cause I've got a fresh new homicide case for you," my dad said.

"Like what?" Natalie asked.

"There's been an armored car robbery at Pier 70," my dad said, "Three people are dead and a lot of money is missing."

"We'll be right there," Natalie said, and hung up. "It's like Christmas has come early for us, Kendra, Adrian. Armored car robbery at Pier 70, triple homicide."

* * *

Pier 70, located just east of Portrero Hill, on 20th Street, is home to the derelict Bethlehem Steel mill, warehouses, foundries, machine shop and welding sheds. They sit there as the perfect place to hold clandestine criminal meetings or kill someone. Or, rob an armored car.

The police activity today was inside the cavernous remains of what used to be a brick-walled machine shop. A Davenport Armored car sat in the middle of the shop. There were three bodies lying on the ground near the truck, which had to be the drivers and guard. Forensics had set up a small table near the car and this was where my dad was when we arrived around 8:30 AM.

"Hey, Kendra, Natalie, Adrian," my dad said, "Thanks for coming down here."

"What have we got?" Adrian asked.

"Armored car robbery and triple-homicide," my dad said, "The bodies are over by the driver's side door of the cab."

"Oh, boy," Adrian said, "Fill us in."

"Okay," my dad said, "This truck was scheduled to be delivering money to some banks downtown last night. When it failed to show up at its first stop, the Federal Reserve on Market Street, it was reported missing. Dock security found the truck this morning, both drivers and the guard were dead."

"What are the victims' names?" Adrian asked.

"Driver's name was Christopher Krauser, 51 years old," my dad said, "Guards' names were Samir Sayyad, 35 years old, and Aaron Baldwin, age 34."

"Does the coroner have an approximation of the time of death?" I asked.

"Sometime around midnight," my dad said, "Give or take two hours."

"Cause of death?" Adrian asked.

"All three were killed the same way," my dad said, "A single bullet to the back of the head at point-blank range, execution-style."

"Any witnesses?" Natalie asked.

"Yeah, one, a transient," my dad said, "He was hiding. He heard everything and he saw nothing."

"What did he hear?" Adrian asked.

"From what he's told us, he thinks there were anywhere from four to six men," my dad said, "And he thinks that they were Irish."

"What kind of Irish are we talking about, Dad? Irish-American or pure Irish?" I asked.

"He thinks that they had very strong Irish accents," my dad said, "Fresh off the boat."

"Did he hear any names?" I asked.

"He thinks one of them might have been a guy named Douglas," my dad replied, "But then again, he's not entirely sure. Since I just told you the name of the guards, this 'Douglas' person is probably one of the gunmen."

Adrian, Natalie and I looked at each other. Adrian looked worried.

"Are you two thinking what I'm thinking?" Adrian asked in a low whisper.

"I don't know, what are you thinking?" Natalie whispered.

"Irish gang attacks an armored car," Adrian whispered. "Yesterday, we're told Douglas O'Donnell is possibly engaged in criminal activity. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Douglas O'Donnell is responsible?" I whispered.

"He has to be!" Adrian whispered, "It can't be a coincidence here."

"You guys all right?" my dad asked out loud.

"Yeah, we're all right," Adrian said, "How much did the robbers get?"

"They emptied the truck of the cash," my dad said, "We're checking with the armored car company to see if we can get a copy of the manifest."

"Did you get the background check on Douglas O'Donnell?" Adrian said.

"Well you know Leland, Monk, he's kinda hard to reason with," my dad said, "But I got him and Randy to do the digging."

"Did they find anything?" Adrian asked.

"Nope, nothing," my dad said, "If O'Donnell's engaged in criminal activity, he's very good at covering his tracks or at the very least, masking the scent."

"Oh," Adrian said, "OK."

"It's going to be almost impossible to get a warrant. But in the meantime, we have this robbery to deal with," my dad said.

"Right," Adrian said, "I think the three of us will want to check this out for ourselves."

"Knock yourselves out," my dad said, "If you find anything, let me know. I'll be right over here."

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I walked over to the armored car.

"I feel inclined now to think that Luke Reordan and Denise Hossack must have thought O'Donnell was engaged in more serious criminal activities," Adrian said.

"What are you thinking now?" I asked.

"That they believed O'Donnell was carrying out robberies like this," Adrian said, "That does give reason for O'Donnell or someone on his crew to take out both Luke and Denise."

We'd now come to a stop right next to the armored car. Now I got a better chance to actually look at the vehicle. The first thing I now noticed was that there was a lot of damage to the armored car. The back bumper looked like it was partially broken off.

"I wonder what could've caused that," I said, pointing to the damage. "It's all banged up and that fender looks like it's been through the wash. Did this guy get into an accident?"

"Looks like he got rear-ended," Natalie said.

"Yeah, definitely," Adrian said. "Probably by some sort of heavy duty vehicle like a big, big truck."

He held up his hands as he walked along the side of the truck, from the back of the truck, all the way over to the bodies of the drivers that were lined up just behind the cab. The first thing I now noticed was the position of the bodies. They were all lying on their stomachs, with their mouths taped together and their hands tied behind their backs with cable ties. And there were big pools of blood by their heads. It was obvious to me, and from what my dad had said, that both guards and the driver had been executed in cold blood. Whoever shot them was an incredibly ruthless individual.

"This is not a murder, this is more like an….execution," I said. "Jeez, I can't imagine the boss of a highly successfully PI firm doing this."

"Kendra, anyone we've met has proven to be capable of murder in some way, shape, or form," Adrian said. I smiled at him.

"I know that, Adrian," I said. I kissed him flirtatiously on the mouth. "I'm just teasing you."

Adrian looked up at the car's side mirrors.

"Those side-mirrors are pushed in," he said.

"Yeah, so?" Natalie asked.

"You just saw the damage to the back bumper, Natalie. I'm inclined to think that this armored truck was probably not driven here under its own power," Adrian said, "But rather, it was carried here in the back of a bigger truck, like, say an eighteen-wheeler. I mean, a typical trailer is big enough to accommodate a NASCAR stock car, so it undoubtedly could also handle a vehicle the size of an ordinary armored car. And the damage inflicted to the back bumper probably came not from that eighteen-wheeler, but from another big duty truck whose role was to shove the armored car into the semi's trailer."

"So we're dealing with at least two vehicles being used?" Natalie said, "An eighteen-wheeler, another truck sturdy enough to shove an armored car, and possibly a couple of getaway vehicles, like sedans or vans?"

"Probably," Adrian said, "Although if you asked me, Kendra, the trucks themselves were probably getaway cars of their own."

"We need someone to backtrack along the armored car's scheduled route to figure out where it could have been hijacked," I said.

"That's a good idea," Adrian said, "I'm sure one of our other detectives can do that."

"So, two trucks transport the armored truck here to this warehouse," I said, "They unload the truck from the rig's trailer. How do they get the drivers out of the cab?"

"That's a good question, Kendra," Adrian said. He walked back to the rear of the truck. After doing a quick scan, he reached down to the rear bumper and plucked something that was lodged in the fender with his tweezers. It looked like a little piece of rubber about one or two centimeters in diameter.

"Rubber tubing?" Natalie asked.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "And it fits this little hole in the Plexiglas here." He pointed to a small centimeter wide hole in the Plexiglas that made up the back windows. The hole looked like it had been drilled.

"So they were gassed out?" I asked.

"That's what it looks like," Adrian said, "Unless you have some alternate way of getting the drivers to leave the cab so you can execute them. In fact I think this execution says something else about O'Donnell and his crew here."

"Which is?" Natalie asked.

"That they probably didn't wear masks," Adrian said.

"How do you know that?" Natalie asked.

"Most of the time, I believe robbers that don't wear masks tend to kill hostages rather than release them, because they know that the hostage typically probably will remember their face better than anyone else, especially if that robber is a career criminal," Adrian explained.

"The armored car robbers in _Heat_ wore masks and the guards were still killed anyways," Natalie said.

"True, but you do realize that Waingro was the problem for that crew, Natalie?" Adrian said.

"Oh," Natalie said, "I guess I forgot. We haven't viewed that movie in a while."

"I don't blame you," Adrian said. "I'm guessing the best way to deal with this is that we ask Danielle to put O'Donnell under surveillance."

"Can we even do that?" I asked. "I mean, legally?"

"Danielle said she's at our beck and call 24/7/365," Adrian said, "Besides, it would be good for her. We think O'Donnell personally killed or arranged for Luke Reordan and Denise Hossack to be killed, so I'd be betting to think that if we put him under surveillance, we'll be able to find something that links him to those crimes, too."

"Let's go talk to her," Natalie said, "The sooner, the better."

* * *

We headed back towards my dad, who was chatting with some other cops.

"Anything?" my dad asked.

"Yeah. It looks like the armored car may have been hauled here in the back of a semi," Adrian said, "There's damage on the rear fender that seems to suggest that the vehicle didn't drive itself here on its own power."

"That makes a lot of sense," my dad said, "To show up here, the armored car must have gone way off course, which tells me they must have been intercepted."

"If you don't mind, we're actually on our way back to Denise Hossack's house to talk to her sister," Adrian said, "We think that we might find some leads pertaining to the identities of the robbers."

"Be my guest. If her sister has anything to say, do get her in touch with me," my dad said.

"We will," I said, as the three of us headed back outside to our car.


	9. The Inside Woman

From the warehouse, Adrian, Natalie and I headed straight back across the city and back to Danielle Hossack's house. This time, though, there were no police cars parked in front of the house, there was no crime scene tape, and there were no coroner's vans. You wouldn't know that the day before, there'd been a drowning on this street.

When Danielle answered the door, we saw that she was wearing a green t-shirt and running shorts.

"Hi, Danielle," Adrian said, "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," Danielle said, "Is there anything on my sister's death?"

"Yeah, there've been some big developments," Adrian said, "Can we come in, please?"

"Sure," Danielle said.

A few minutes later, the three of us were seated on a sofa, facing Danielle, who was sitting on a matching armchair.

"When I talked to you yesterday evening, Miss Davenport, you said you hadn't heard anything from Luke Reordan," Danielle said.

"That's true, but it's not exactly what you think," I said.

"What do you mean?" Danielle asked.

"Because Luke Reordan is dead," Adrian said. "Natalie, do you have the file?"

"It's right here," Natalie said. She produced the file folder on the Reordan murder case from her purse, and handed it to Danielle

"We think that someone killed Reordan on Monday night by beating him to death," I said, "Whoever did it also took his laptop and burned his notes."

"Good lord," Danielle said, "His death must be tied to my sister's."

"Yes, we believe that that is the case here," Adrian said, "That your sister and her boyfriend were both killed by the same person if not killed by individuals working for this person."

"Danielle, you mentioned yesterday that in the weeks leading up to her death, Denise was asking you a lot of questions about Intertect," Natalie said.

"That's right," Danielle said.

"Was she making inquiries about Douglas O'Donnell?" Adrian asked.

Danielle thought for a moment.

"Yes! As a matter of fact, she was," Danielle said.

"Why do you think Luke and Denise were investigating O'Donnell?" I asked. "We spoke with their editor yesterday, and she told us that they thought O'Donnell was engaged in criminal activities, like bankrupting other companies for personal financial gain."

"Yeah, that's true," Danielle grimaced as she said that. "They thought O'Donnell had manipulated five or six other big Fortune 500 companies so that their stocks would drop in value."

"Give us an example," Natalie said, "I at the very least don't quite comprehend what's being implied here."

"OK, well, I'll give you an example. You know who Raymond Tusk is, right?" Danielle asked.

"Yeah, we know him. Well, everyone in America knows him. He's that Missouri billionaire who owns a bunch of nuclear power plants in the Southeastern U.S.," Adrian said, "I believe he got pardoned by the President for his role in a money laundering scheme last year."

"You probably know that his plant in Montgomery, Alabama had a nuclear meltdown six months ago," Danielle said, "According to Denise, Tusk Energy stock lost about 49% of its value. And right before the meltdown, according to Denise, O'Donnell had been short-selling massive quantities of the company's shares, and he turned a fortune."

"Is that so?" I asked.

"If you read the papers, the investigators found evidence that showed the reactors were sabotaged, indicating the meltdown was staged," Danielle said. "And Tusk Energy is not the only company O'Donnell's sabotaged."

"What other companies has he driven into the ground?"

"The Circle, based down in San Jose," Danielle said, "A month or so ago, O'Donnell buys up a large quantity of their stocks, then shorts his stocks. Days after he bets against the company, the company CEO, Tyson Gospodinov is killed in a car accident. The stock plummets, and everyone who invested in The Circle loses a good amount of money, except Mr. O'Donnell, who makes a sweet payday."

"So, you're saying that your sister and her boyfriend believe Douglas O'Donnell, CEO of Intertect, may be engineering other companies' downfalls to profit himself," Adrian said.

"That's correct," Danielle said, "I mean, when Denise said that she thought O'Donnell engineered Gospodinov's death, I thought it made perfect sense."

"Why's that?" I asked, perplexed.

"It was only thanks to the big profit he made off of those well timed investments that he kept our company from filing for bankruptcy," Danielle said. "I mean, let's face it, the gadgetry and equipment we use isn't cheap."

"And there might be a possibility that O'Donnell is trying to engage in another criminal scheme," Adrian said, "We think he robbed an armored car last night."

Danielle looked stunned. "What?"

"A Davenport armored car turned up this morning in a warehouse down in the Mission Bay area," Adrian said, "Both guards and the driver were found shot to death execution-style, and the truck was emptied of money."

"Geez Louise," Danielle said. "And you think Mr. O'Donnell is behind it?"

"Based on earwitness's testimony, yeah," I said.

"Danielle, you said you're at our beck and call every hour of the day," Adrian said, "We'd like you to put Douglas O'Donnell under surveillance."

"How do you expect me to do that?" Danielle asked. "You're asking me to somehow arrange for our boss to be spied on."

"This is Intertect we're talking about here," Adrian said, "There has to be something you can do."

Danielle loosened up, seemingly relieved. "Yes. There _is_ something."

"What is it?" Natalie asked.

"Our company cars have GPS locater units on them," she said, "They're like the ones the trucking companies install on their rigs to keep track of their freight at all times."

 _OK, that is creepy_ , I thought. "Intertect keeps its operatives under surveillance?"

Danielle shook her head. "Every operative that owns a company car knows that there's a locator unit on the vehicle. O'Donnell says that it's for our own safety and security. This is a dangerous line of work where the possibility of getting killed is pretty high. So, if we get into trouble, Intertect can always contact the police to send a unit to our last known location, or, if we drop off the radar, Intertect can backtrack our every movement for the last five weeks and retrace our steps."

"That's fascinating," Adrian said, "I assume that each operative has trackers of their own that they can install on cars."

"Yeah, that's also true," Danielle said, "If we're, like, being hired by some guy to follow his wife because he thinks she is seeing another man, well, we install a tracker on her primary vehicle. We can then download the information gleaned from this tracker at any time we want."

"Great," I said, "So how long would it take you to install a tracker on Douglas O'Donnell's car?"

"Five minutes at most," Danielle said, "The key is to install it without him knowing it's there."

Adrian, Natalie and I exchanged looks.

"Can you also maybe assign an operative to follow him in their own car?" Natalie asked.

"I have the authority to do that," Danielle said.

"Just tell them to drive their own personal car to do it and not use a company car," Adrian said. "And ask them to take pictures of whoever he meets with and have them forward the images to you, and you report them to us."

"You got it, boss," Danielle said. "I'll see if I can get on it by this afternoon. O'Donnell's not expecting me to be in the office for a couple days so I'll have a bit more ability to do this discreetly."

"O'Donnell's not expecting you in the office?" I asked.

"I told him I needed some time off to properly grieve over my sister," Danielle said, breaking into a smile, "He gave me two weeks' leave."

"Great!" I said. "I think we're in business here."

"And that's a good thing," Danielle said.

"One more thing," Adrian said, "Out of curiosity, What kind of gun does Douglas O'Donnell utilize?"

"Glock 17," Danielle said, "It's a 9mm. Why do you ask?"

I looked at Adrian and then at Natalie. They were thinking the same thing as me: O'Donnell had to have been the one to shoot the guards.

"Nothing, just wanted to know," Adrian said, getting up from his seat. "Well, Danielle, you take care of what we just asked you to do, and we'll be back here if anything new comes up."

"I'll be here," Danielle said, "Don't worry about me."

* * *

We left the house, all three of us sporting fairly radiant smiles.

"Gosh, how it is so great to have a partner like Danielle Hossack," Adrian said as we walked back to our car, "Don't you agree, ladies?"

"I agree, Adrian, absolutely," Natalie said, "We have great chemistry."

"I have to agree, too," I said, "Speaking of which." I don't know why, but I felt a sudden urge to kiss Adrian, and, well, I couldn't resist the urge.

Adrian and I were still locked together in our kiss when my cell phone rang.

"Geez," I said, pulling back, "Who has to be such a big lip-blocker today?"

I unclipped my phone from my belt and looked at the caller ID. It was my dad calling.

"Hey, dad," I said, "What's up?"

"I think we've caught a lead in the robbery," my dad said, "There's been another homicide. I need your opinion."

"We're a little busy checking out a lead of our own, dad," I said.

"The lead I just turned up is a bit fresher," my dad said, "And also a bit a more dead."

I contemplated this for a moment.

"Kendra?" my dad asked. "Hello? Are you still there?"

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm still here," I said, "What's the address?"

* * *

The crime scene itself was located in a two-story, wood-shingled, Cape Cod-style house at the corner of Rayburn and Liberty Streets in Noe Valley. It sat at the top of a hill overlooking Castro and Noe Streets, Sutro Tower, and the Twin Peaks to the west. At this particular corner, Liberty became a terraced garden staircase that led down the hill to Noe Street. The houses along this stretch of Rayburn between Liberty and 21st, had unobstructed views to kill for. Maybe that was the motive had it not been for what my dad had said about it possibly being tied to the armored car robbery.

With the siren on, it took Adrian, Natalie and me about fifteen minutes to get to the scene. Rayburn was narrow, barely wider than an average alleyway, and thus the street was clogged with police vehicles. My dad was waiting out front when we showed up.

"Thanks for coming down here," he said, "We might just have found the first conspirator from the armored car robbery to die."

"Any luck locating the vehicles used?" Adrian asked.

"No, not yet," my dad said, "The Captain's got at least five or six guys at the station checking, though, to see if any semis or rigs in the Bay Area have been reported stolen recently. But, hopefully, what's happened here will possibly point us in the right direction."

"That would be nice indeed," Natalie said.

"Who is the victim?" I asked.

"Melissa Carney," my dad said, "33 years old. She lived alone. She typically goes on a jog with some of her neighbors every morning. When she didn't answer the door, they were a bit concerned."

"I see," Adrian said.

"One of these friends of hers had a spare key," my dad continued, "He opened the door, entered the house and found the body."

"Where are they?" Adrian asked. "The body?"

"In the bedroom," my dad said. He showed us into the house. The place looked so neat it honestly felt more like a hotel suite or our apartment than a house in a neighborhood like Noe Valley. The bedroom itself looked almost like mine: gleaming hardwood floors and a big four poster bed angled to face the windows. The only real differences were that the view was different, this bed looked like it was maybe four inches narrower than mine, my pillows were red, and the ones in this room were white.

The body of Melissa Carney was lying face-up in the center on the bed with her head lying back on a pillow. She was wearing striped pajamas, and had what looked like two bullet wounds in her chest and one in her head. Her pajamas, and the bed sheets were soaked with blood, some of which had dripped onto the floor. Some people might find it hard to believe that that much blood could come from one person, but believe me, even though the human body carries roughly 1.3 gallons worth of red blood cells, that's still a lot

"Well, this sure is a nice surprise," I said.

"Time of death?" Adrian asked.

"The M.E. thinks sometime about two hours ago, tops," my dad said.

"So what do you think happened?" Natalie asked.

"I'd say she probably had sex with the killer," Adrian said, "In the missionary position probably. That semen stain around her crotch area looks pretty fresh, like, not even a few hours old."

"Morning lovemaking," Natalie said, "Yeah, I hear that intercourse in the morning is a better stimulant than coffee for some people."

"Any sign of forced entry?" I asked.

"Nope," my dad said. "Whoever it was, it must have been someone she knew. Whoever it is, he stands at approximately the foot of the bed and he shoots her, double tap to the chest, one coup-de-grace to the head."

"Mozambique drill," Adrian said, "So we're dealing with a professional."

"Ballistics thinks that the killer used a 9mm pistol," my dad said, "Possibly the same pistol used in the robbery to execute the guards."

Adrian turned to me and Natalie. I could see it in his eyes: _Douglas O'Donnell is also responsible for this murder_.

"You said she was tied to the armored car robbery," Adrian said, "What's the connection?"

"Melissa here works for Davenport Armored Cars," my dad said, "I checked with her boss. Apparently, she's the one who creates the routes that the trucks take."

"So she could have been paid to sell information about that one particular armored car?" I asked. "Or seduced into giving that info?"

"Probably," my dad said, "We're checking her bank accounts and her phone records."

"Did this guy also say how much money was taken from the truck?" Natalie asked.

"No, this guy doesn't have access to copies of the manifests," my dad said, "But I swear, we are still trying to track that down."

"OK," Natalie said.

I glanced at the closet. It was full of women's clothing, but I couldn't but notice what looked like four perfectly pressed pairs of slacks and four matching Ralph Lauren shirts on the hangers. I then took a glance at the bathroom's medicine cabinet, which was filled with wrapped bars of soap, shaving cream, cologne and razors.

"Her lover must have been the one to pull the trigger," Adrian said. I turned and saw he had been following my gaze.

"I think I see what you're looking at, Adrian," I said, "The identical shirts and the stocked medicine cabinet."

"It has to be, there's no other answer," Adrian said, "There's four matching pairs of pants and four shirts in that closet, and they're all the same color. O'Donnell's a man who beds a lot of women, so obviously he's also the kind of man who would be cautious and change into fresh clothes so that other women will never smell this one…" he pointed to the body, "…on him."

"You're saying the lover is Douglas O'Donnell?" my dad asked.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "You said the sole earwitness to the robbery heard a man being addressed as Douglas and this 'Douglas' person had an Irish brogue. And our Intertect friend Danielle Hossack says that O'Donnell carries a 9mm pistol, like you say was used here."

"As I told you yesterday, O'Donnell's a man who happens to donate to a lot of police charities," my dad said, "And he sits on the police commission. It will take a lot more pull than what you've just told me to even get a warrant to bring him in for questioning."

"We've taken the initiative," Adrian said, "Right before we came here, we asked Danielle to put him under surveillance."

"You have?" my dad asked. "Well, good luck with that. If that leads to conspirators being identified, then well, we'll follow leads that result from that. Meanwhile, I'll do what Captain Stottlemeyer tells me to do, and follow leads based off what I find here."

"All right," Adrian said, "We'll keep in touch. I don't think O'Donnell knows we're working this case, but, yeah, we'll see what we can find to take him down for six murders. And we'll be so stealthy that by the time he finds out that we're coming for him, it will be too late for him to respond."

* * *

 **A/N:** Danielle Hossack bringing up Raymond Tusk and his energy plants is just another reminder that this story is set in the universe of _House of Cards._


	10. Lunch, a Milkshake, And Attempted Murder

Adrian, Natalie and I drove over to Columbus Avenue in North Beach, and took lunch at Dorothy's Diner, at Union Street and Columbus Avenue on the southwest corner of Washington Square Park.

This section of Columbus happens to be full of Italian restaurants, and well, typically, the selection can be a bit overwhelming to a newcomer to this part of San Francisco, because, well, let's face it, there are just too many good restaurants to choose from. Not helping the case is the fact that almost all of them have someone standing outside their door like a carnival baker, doing everything short of pulling an assault rifle on you and dragging you into the restaurant. Dorothy's Diner is like a rare exception.

Adrian, Natalie and I were seated in our usual table by the window, looking out onto Columbus Avenue. The bloodshed we'd seen that morning wouldn't put me off from enjoying my usual, a juicy bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

"I just have to admit I find this case very exciting," I said, "CEO of Intertect turns out to be a ruthless murderer. It could be the case of the century."

"Kendra, you find every case exciting," Adrian said.

"I'm flirting with you, Adrian," I said, "Is it not legal for me to flirt with my own husband?"  
"It's not illegal," Adrian said, "Still, we heard your dad, Kendra. Douglas O'Donnell is a member of the police commission, even if he's no longer a cop. So the standard of proof to catch him is much higher than other crooks."

"We should try to find out who his accomplices in the job were," Natalie said.

"Exactly," Adrian said, "That's provided he doesn't kill them before we can get to them."

I sighed.

"How many accomplices would there even be, Adrian?" I asked.

"Depends on how you interpret the word accomplice, Kendra," Adrian said, "I think the better word is 'conspirators'. And I'd say that depending on circumstances, there would have to be at least five, maybe six, at minimum. I mean, let's go over what we know: we know that Melissa Carney, killed this morning, has to be one of the conspirators. She would be the inside woman who supplied information about that armored car's route and maybe even its contents."

"That's at least one of them," Natalie said.

"Of course, that money might be brand new and thus easy to trace," Adrian continued, "So, I think they'll want to get rid of it as fast as possible."

"Who do we look for?" I asked.

"O'Donnell is probably going to have the money laundered," Adrian said, "He and his conspirators probably have some way of keeping the money in their hands that makes it look like legitimate income. They might take it to the casinos, the racetracks, maybe engage in moving drugs across town. Vice and the DEA might come in handy to help us out."

"It does sound like a lot of work," I said.

"That's how cases like this typically work, Kendra," Adrian said, "It's lot of sitting at your desk going through paperwork. It's not exactly a bunch of gunfights and assault rifle-wielding bad guys, and explosions, and passionate make out sessions."

I smiled at Adrian. "Except we still have the highest body counts of anyone in the department."

"Which is also true," Adrian said. He looked down at his hands, looking like he was eager to change the subject. Then he straightened up, like he'd just realized something. "I just realize, Kendra, that your birthday's on Sunday, and Natalie, yours is next Tuesday."

"Ah, with all these murders we seem to have forgotten about our personal lives," I said. "Do you have any sort of gift or presents planned for either of us?"

"Not quite," Adrian said, "I don't know what your dad's planning on giving you."

"You're a detective, Adrian," I said, grinning at him.

"It might be jewelry," Adrian said, "The odds of course, of that being the case, are 2 to the power 3,079,460,347 to one against."

"What makes you think my dad's giving me jewelry?" I asked.

"There was a small box on his desk yesterday," Adrian said, "The box looked about the size of a jewelry box. Off its size, I'd say it's probably going to be a necklace or a new set of earrings."

"I could use new earrings," I said, "Hopefully nothing fancy or too ostentatious."

"They certainly make you a bit more of a stunner," Adrian said.

"I'm already a stunner," I said, "To you, at least." Adrian and I chuckled. "Of course, I think I might be also inclined to think we were going to go out to dinner at some fancy restaurant for my birthday."

"If that's what you want, Kendra," Adrian replied, "It can be arranged."

* * *

When we were finished with lunch, we stepped out onto Columbus Avenue. Just as we were about to get into our car, Adrian suddenly stopped.

"What?" Natalie asked.

Adrian pointed at the Beneke Fabricators van parked in front of our car.

"Why are you pointing at that van?" Natalie asked.

"That van arrived here fifteen minutes ago," Adrian said.

"So?" I asked.

"Kendra, Natalie, the engine's running," Adrian said. I looked, and sure enough, there was exhaust coming out of the tailpipes.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It's been idling here for this whole time," Adrian said, "No one's gotten out of the vehicle. And come on, Beneke Fabricators? Seriously?" he pointed at the decal printed on the side of the doors.

That was when the traffic light turned green. The van suddenly shot forward, cut straight in front of traffic, and screeched to a stop, in the middle of the intersection, cutting off a Mercedes Maybach traveling the opposite direction.

Almost just as fast, a brown Chevrolet Express van with the logo for 'Bay Bridge Begonias' rear-ended the Maybach from behind, partially crumpling its trunk area.

Pretty much every pedestrian had stopped what they were doing and was staring at the two vans and the Maybach.

Suddenly, the side door on the Beneke van flew open and two men piled out, as did the van's driver. They both had leather jackets on, and they all had weapons. The driver appeared to be 6'1", with sandy hair. He was carrying a submachine gun in his hand. His comrades were a guy who stood about the same height as him, but had brown hair and lengthy sideburns on his face; and the other was a black guy about 5'9" tall. They also had submachine guns and holstered pistols, with the submachine guns being the weapons they had drawn.

Immediately, I heard at least one pedestrian scream and a couple of people get out their cell phones.

"Somebody call the cops!" I heard a bystander say.

Natalie grabbed her cell phone from her purse and pressed a number on her speed dial. It wasn't 911. We only call them when we're the ones discovering a body or someone needs medical help. No, Natalie's cell phone is special. Here's an example of what her phone is capable of: if you press the * key, then type in the number 1-1-9-9, then press the button for 'call', it will transmit an 'officer needs help' call to the dispatcher, who then will dispatch units to our location. Which is exactly what Natalie typed into her phone in this case. She typed in the 'officer needs help' code instead of the code for a perp with a gun because when an 'officer needs help' goes out on the radio, standard procedure is that every available unit in the area not preoccupied has to respond to your location.

The moment Natalie put her phone back in her purse after making the call to dispatch, was the same moment that the gunmen from the first van raised their guns and fired on the car.

Adrian, Natalie and I instinctively ducked down behind our car. All three of us also drew our pistols.

"Damn!" I said.

The gunmen were firing into the windshield. I had to imagine that right now, the driver was probably being riddled with bullets, gangster-style.

"Stay down!" Adrian said.

I instinctively flinched and moved closer to Adrian.

"This must be a mob hit!" I said.

We continued to stay hunkered down until the automatic gunfire had subsided.

One of the gunmen marched over to the rear passenger's door of the car. He placed his submachine gun on the roof of the car and had brandished a sledgehammer.

"We're so useless here!" Natalie said. She slowly stood up.

"Natalie, what are you doing?" Adrian said.

"We can't let whoever's in there get killed!" she said.

That was when we heard a loud crack. Adrian and I popped up to take a look. The gunman with the sledgehammer had taken a swing at the rear passenger window. It had cracked and splintered from where the sledgehammer had made contact.

"He's breaking into the car!" Natalie said.

She immediately broke cover and sprinted towards the gunman.

"Come on!" Adrian said. He and I broke cover as well.

The guy with the sledgehammer failed to see Natalie running up behind him, knife in her right hand. Without warning, she jumped onto him, throwing him against the side of the car. She then fired her pistol, putting a bullet through the man's back, and pushed him to the ground.

"Jimmy!" the second gunman shouted.

As the henchman fell, that gunman ran over and aimed his rifle at Natalie. He would avenge his fallen comrade. Or, had it not been for what happened next, he would have.

"Kendra!" Adrian said.

I shot that gunman just a split second before he would have shot Natalie. As he staggered back, he fired his gun, and I shot him twice. The automatic rifle-wielding gunman ran around the car, ready to avenge his comrades. Adrian, Natalie and I got our pistols out first and shot him before that could happen. The rifleman fell dead, four bullets in his body.

I could hear sirens in the distance. The van parked behind the Maybach suddenly reversed about two car lengths, pushing back the pickup truck that had been stopped behind it. Natalie stood up and brushed herself off. All three of us trained our pistols at the van.

"Adrian, do we shoot at them?" Natalie asked Adrian.

"Yes," he said.

We opened fire on the driver as he made a U-turn to face the opposite direction. The van then rocketed away, off into the distance. We continued shooting at it until our guns each clicked empty.

Natalie didn't look like she was pleased that the dead gunmen's accomplices were fleeing.

"Argh!" she said, stomping her foot in frustration as the first patrol cars showed up.

"They can't get far, Natalie," Adrian said, "We'll find them."

Natalie took several deep breaths.

* * *

The entire intersection was roped off with crime scene tape. A forensics unit was on scene within 20 minutes of the shooting to process the scene. Adrian, Natalie and I were leaning against the side of our car, watching the forensics technicians that were crawling all over both the remaining van and the Maybach, being dusted for fingerprints and taking photographs of both the vehicles and the dead bodies of the gunmen we'd killed. I didn't have to look at her face to know that Natalie was somewhat upset about what happened. Some of the gunmen had escaped and were probably going to have another go. I couldn't really blame her. As we watched, I could see my dad conversing with some cops looking at the van, and another of my dad's colleagues, Lieutenant Randy Disher, was standing by the ambulance, talking to the couple that was sitting in the backseat when the car had been ambushed.

"I hate this," Natalie said.

"Murder never is," Adrian said, "So is attempted murder."

"Yeah, well, this has been a very busy day, Adrian," Natalie said, "We don't usually get many days like that."

"Natalie, this is San Francisco," Adrian said. "If we were in Chicago, this would be called 'a typical Southwest side Monday'."

Natalie smiled.

My dad came over to us.

"Well this job doesn't get any easier," he said.

"It never does," Adrian said.

"So who's the lovely couple in the ambulance?" Natalie asked, pointing to the couple that Disher was questioning.

"You're not going to like it," my dad said, "Paddy McClellan and his wife Nicole. He's the chairman of El Dorado Trust."

"The banking firm?" Adrian asked.

"Yeah, that one," my dad said. "They have, like, ten branches in the city and hundreds more nationwide."

"Oh," Adrian said. Natalie and I looked at him.

"That's a new one," I said.

"What about the van?" Natalie asked.

"We're running the plates right now," my dad said, "I wouldn't be surprised if it's stolen."

"It probably is," Adrian said.

There was a crowd of people being kept a safe distance back by the uniformed officers who'd responded. As far as I could tell, they seemed to be looking at the cops doing their job as if it were the most unusual thing to see bodies lying in the middle of the street.

"This is going to be a circus," Adrian said, "I can smell that it's going to be a circus from here."

"Anything you can do about that?" Natalie asked.

"Not really, Natalie," Adrian said, "Kendrick has some influence over what gets out to the press, but not much. This is the chairman of one of the largest banks in the country who just almost got assassinated. The press are going to be all over this one, and I can guarantee it."

"Knowing the press, they're probably going to try seeking out the first videotape of this incident that they can find," I said, "So they can sensationalize it and titillate every viewer."

"I guess, for now, the only thing we can do is check out the identities of those who've died," Adrian said, "If this was done on Douglas O'Donnell's orders and it's frankly looking like that, considering we know he robbed that armored car, I'd like to know who these guys are so we can possibly locate other conspirators."

"Are we sure it's O'Donnell?" Natalie asked.

"The violent nature of the crime seems to make me think that," Adrian said.

Adrian, Natalie and I walked over to a forensic tech who was checking the wallet removed from the pocket of one of the dead hitmen.

"Got names, Becky?" Adrian asked one of the forensics techs.

"Yeah," Becky said. "All three had their wallets and IDs on hand."

"What are their names?" I asked.

"This one here with the bullet wound to the back is Jimmy McGoohan," she answered, "That one's Charles Maguire. The guy with the rifle is Mark O'Reilly."

"Oh," Adrian said. "All of them Intertect investigators, right?"

"Yes, sir," Becky said, "Well, we found IDs with the Intertect logo in their wallets, so that's a safe assumption."

"Just as I thought," Adrian said. His glance now fell on the car. We'd been so focused on just what had happened that we'd forgotten for a moment that when we saw the gunmen firing into the car, they were shooting into the windshield, and that from where they were shooting, whoever was sitting in the front seat almost certainly was dead. I took a look. Sitting in the driver's seat and in the passenger's seat were two men in peaked caps, who I immediately deduced to be the McClellans' driver and bodyguard, or rather, what _used to be_ the McClellans' driver and bodyguard. Now they were riddled with bullets all over their bodies and both the windows and the bulletproof partition that separated the drivers from the backseat were covered in blood.

"Oh my god," Natalie said.

"It's like somebody with a love for bloodshed was here," I said. I was disgusted by what I saw. "Who the hell would do something like this?"

Adrian sighed. "I don't know, Kendra. I can tell you that they are, however, fairly efficient and very ruthless. Bloody and brutal."

"Ruthless?" Natalie asked.

"Well the driver seems to have been shot at least seventeen to twenty-one times," he said, "At least seven of them are in the head alone. He probably died instantly. I'd say the guy riding shotgun got the same number of bullets in his body, too," Adrian said, "That's kinda the definition of ruthless in my book."

"So they shot the drivers. Why use a sledgehammer to break the windows?" Natalie asked. She still looked disgusted by what had happened.

"I think because of the partition here," Adrian said, pointing to the partition that divided the driver's seat from the backseat. It appeared to be made of bulletproof Plexiglas, and isolated the chauffeurs from the passenger who got to afford the luxury of riding in a reclining, heated, double-quilted, nubeck leather backseat, the _San Francisco Chronicle_ spread out on their cherrywood desk while Miss NBC played herself on one of four flatscreen TV sets.

"So, since the bullets failed to go through the partition," I said, "They tried breaking into the car with their sledgehammers, Mr. McGoohan at least."

"Yeah, he was," Adrian replied. He sighed. "In fact, had it not been for your intervening right then, Natalie, I think that they would have pulled the passengers out of the car, thrown them to the ground, then executed them with bullets to the back of the head."

Natalie looked even more pissed. But she seemed rather calm about it.

"Oh, Jesus, I want to kill these guys," she said to herself.

"Natalie, they're dead," I said, "Can't kill them any further."

"I'm talking about whoever was in that van that fled the scene," she said, "I want to find them, and kill them, and Douglas O'Donnell."

"Natalie, we're cops, not guns-for-hire," Adrian said.

Natalie took a deep breath.

"Right," she said, "For a moment, I forgot."

"I have to admit Natalie's right," I said, "If this is Douglas O'Donnell's work, then we're going to have to go to the mattresses. We're going to have to go to war with him."

"You make a compelling argument, Kendra," Adrian said.

"Thanks," I said. He quickly kissed me. I felt a nice electric jolt going through my body.

"Oh, that hits the spot," I said.

"Now, let's go check out the van."

* * *

We walked around the Maybach, where forensics techs were photographing the stolen van.

"I don't think they planned to use this vehicle to flee the scene," Adrian said.

"How do you know that?" Natalie asked.

"There's enough damage to the front of the van to make it impossible to drive. The engine area's caved in."

"That's helpful," Natalie said.

Adrian popped open the driver's side door and climbed in to look around. I think the speed of his deduction must've set a record. In twenty seconds, he climbed out, looking somewhat at ease.

"Anything?" I asked.

"No surprise, the van is stolen," Adrian said, "Probably yesterday, on Post Street, two or so blocks west of Montgomery Street. I could probably describe the original owner, but that's not the point. The point is that this van and the other van were stolen yesterday by people who knew what they were doing, for the purpose of staging an ambush. The fact that they willingly left the van here suggests we aren't going to find prints."

I knew the van was stolen. But how could Adrian in ten seconds pinpoint the exact location and time of the theft?

"Explain, please," Natalie said.

"Oh," Adrian said, looking perplexed. "Sorry, ladies, I forgot you sometimes are a bit slow to catch up. Whoever normally drives this van maintains the leather on a regular basis. He also doesn't leave behind any litter or crumbs, compared to some people."

"Yeah, right," I said, "What about pinpointing the location of the theft?"

Adrian produced a single square of white paper with black printing, centered on the dashboard. Natalie and I read it.

"It's a pay and display receipt," I said.

"The owner probably would never leave an unused receipt on his own van, so he was still using the receipt at the time of the theft."

Sure enough, in black-and-white, there it was on the receipt-the parking area, the date and time the ticket was issued, and the expected duration of the stay. Sometimes, brilliance really can be simple.

"So," Natalie said, "What was the gunmen's plan? A Tommy gun ambush? Mob assassination?"

"Do I look like a psychic, Natalie?" Adrian asked. "I can't mind-read dead people."

"Sorry," she said.

Adrian sighed.

"I'm banking on a shooting, since all three of the guys had guns. All we know is that they probably cased this route beforehand. They'd timed when the chief's car would show up. When that happened, they were to use the vans to box the car in. Upon getting out, McGoohan and O'Reilly fired into the driver's compartment to kill the driver and the bodyguard, to get rid of any armed resistance."

He turned to Natalie.

"I imagine that, once they were certain they had the driver and bodyguard neutralized, they were going to do the same to the McClellans. They even left the engine running, suggesting that both vans were going to then flee the scene and be long gone before the first squad car could arrive."

"And only one of them got away," she said.

"Because we killed everyone who was in that van, Natalie," I said. "They're probably going to dump the other one as soon as possible."

"We need to talk to the McClellans," Adrian said, "I want to know where they were coming from and where they were going. And I think I want to know how many people knew his planned movements."

"You might be right," Natalie said, "Let's do it now while they're still here."

* * *

The McClellans were still sitting in the back of the ambulance, both of them wearing shock blankets. Paddy McClellan looked scared to death, as did his wife Nicole. I think this was the first time they'd been ambushed by people who weren't hesitant about killing. I sure hoped it wouldn't affect how people looked at them.

"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. McClellan," she said, "How are you two doing?" To me, that sounded awkward. After all, we'd just killed a couple of bad guys in front of these two and now we were trying to question these two about what exactly they could have done to justify being targeted by Douglas O'Donnell. So she was speaking with all the casualness of someone talking to their barber.

"How am I doing? I'm kinda shocked that I've been targeted by terrorists," Paddy said, "On the other hand, I'm grateful that you saved our lives."

"Thank you," Natalie said, "It's so rewarding to be thanked when we save someone's life."

"Usually, people are very ungrateful," Adrian said, "So self-centered."

"Are you trying to ask me questions here?" Paddy asked.

"We identified the van," I said, pointing to the van, "It was stolen a few days ago from a small company office on Post Street downtown."

"We also identified the three gunmen who tried to kill you," Adrian said, "Charles Maguire, Jimmy McGoohan and Matthew Costello. Any of those names ring a bell?"

Paddy shook his head.

"No," he said.

"Well we're checking to see right now who might have sent them to kill you," I said, "Do you have any enemies, Mr. McClellan? Or have you received any threats lately?"

"I'm the chairman of a bank," Paddy said. "There are probably hundreds of unhappy people who want me dead every day. Going through that list would be like reading a phone book."

"Or they could be trying to send a message to you," I said.

"They could be," Paddy said.

"Where were you before what's happened here?" Natalie asked.

"We were having lunch downtown with some friends of ours," Nicole said.

"What friends?" Adrian asked.

"Douglas O'Donnell," Nicole said, "He's been a close friend of ours for years."

"Really?" Adrian asked. "Has he ever been to your house?"

"Many times," Paddy said.

"So were you on your way home?" Adrian asked.

"No, we were on our way to an art gallery at the Wharf to meet some friends," Nicole replied. "Are you, like, accusing Mr. O'Donnell of trying to have us killed?"

"No, but we're trying to determine if he had knowledge of your movements," Adrian said, "Look, we'll keep you posted if anything comes up. I think in the meantime you two should probably be taken to the hospital to be checked out."

* * *

That was when Natalie's cell phone rang.

"Hello?" she asked. "Look, I'm busy right now. Some bank chairman almost got killed." She listened carefully. I saw her facial expression turn to one of shock. "Oh, my goodness. We'll be right there."

She hung up.

"They just found the other van," Natalie said, "In an alley on Wetmore Street."

"That's great," I said, "Actually, that was very fast. It's not even been 45 minutes since the attack."

"That's not all," Natalie said.

"What?" Adrian asked.

"All of its occupants are dead," Natalie said.

* * *

 **A/N:** If this action sequence seems familiar, that's because it's based on the opening sequence of the movie version of _Patriot Games_ , when Harrison Ford's Jack Ryan thwarts an attempted assassination of a member of the royal family by a group of Irish terrorists. The only difference is that in the original version, the protagonist got shot and one of the terrorists was captured. Here, all of the gunmen who participated in the assassination attempt are killed, while Adrian, Kendra and Natalie aren't shot. Also, Adrian, Kendra and Natalie already have guns to begin with while Ryan was unarmed when he thwarted the attack in the movie, only getting a gun from a terrorist he disarmed.


	11. Executions and the Van Inferno

The siren is the most valuable asset ever invented for the police car, marked or unmarked. For the most part, cars move out of the way and the streets open up to you, and you get a freedom that most drivers will never experience unless they happen to be on the street at around two o'clock in the morning.

We roared south on Mason Street, until we got to Washington Street, where we made a left turn. We then sped along Washington Street until we saw the squad cars and fire trucks, which were parked in front of Wetmore Street, a long, slightly wider than normal alleyway that someone had bothered to give a name.

The alley itself was cordoned off by crime scene tape and several officers were keeping a bunch of curious pedestrians on the sidewalk and behind the yellow tape.

The first thing I noticed once we got through the crowd was that there was a Chevrolet Express van parked about halfway up the alleyway, or rather, the charred remains of one. Firefighters were busy battling the flames that were licking out from it. There were four bodies lying on the ground about 15 feet downhill from the van, all covered with sheets and lined up in a row.

We found another inspector, Carlos Sanchez, standing by the bodies, and a few forensic technicians taking photographs.

"Sanchez," Adrian said.

Sanchez turned to us.

"Monk, Miss Teeger, Miss Davenport," he said with a grimace, as if the words were causing him pain.

"What have you got?" Adrian asked.

"Well we got a call about 30 minutes ago of a van on fire," Sanchez said, "Firefighters arrived on the scene and they found these four bodies here lying on the ground."

"And?" I asked.

"Well, take a look," Sanchez said. He lifted the sheet, revealing the body of a man in his mid-thirties. He was lying facedown, and the back of his head was matted with blood.

The first thing I noticed was that the victim's mouth was duct-taped and his hands were bound behind his back.

"Oh my god!" I said, "It's like those armored car guards."

"We think the four were pulled out of the van at gunpoint, forced to lie on the ground, and then they were shot at point-blank range," Sanchez said, "It's practically the same M.O. as the guards from the armored car job."

"It's probably even the same gun," Adrian said, "9mm pistol."

"That's a safe bet," Sanchez said, "We're already looking for shell casings."

"How high is the body count now, Adrian?" I asked.

"Well there's four here, and five back in North Beach," Adrian said, "Plus Melissa Carney, the three armored car guards, Luke Reordan and Denise Hossack. Uh, that's 15, so far, Kendra."

"Good grief," I said.

Adrian walked over and held his hands up in front of him as he began to look at the bodies.

"Well, I can't help but say that these were the guys in the van that fled the attack," he said. "And that Douglas O'Donnell doesn't like it when his underlings fail."

"How are you so sure this is the same van?" she asked.

"Look at the rear bumper of the van," Adrian said, "It's got bullet holes on it."

We looked. There were indeed a few bullet holes on the rear bumper, although they looked more like dents than bullet hits.

"Those must have been the ones we left when we shot at the van as it fled," I said.

"I'd say the shooter probably shot that guy first," Adrian said. He pointed to the body that Sanchez had removed the sheet from. "Then he shot the other three from this same position."

"How do you figure?" I asked.

"All the victims were shot in the back of the head," Adrian said, "Blood pooled heavily from the wounds, but look at this one. There's some spots here, like someone was standing there."

I looked. There were two spots in the pool of blood from this victim. I then noticed what looked like some bloody footprints.

"Those look like footprints," I said.

"Whoever's they are, and we have no proof whether they're Douglas O'Donnell's or someone else's, they clearly appear to have come from someone with size 11 or size 12 feet," Adrian said.

"Any witnesses?" Natalie asked.

"Nope," Sanchez said, "If you're talking about if anyone saw the shooting or the van being torched."

"What about the getaway vehicle?" Adrian said. "There are tire tracks right here." He pointed to a set of tire tracks that started about five feet from the bodies and stretched downhill towards Washington Street.

"Oh," Sanchez said, "We're still checking those out."

"Did anyone see a vehicle leave the alleyway right before the alley?" Adrian asked.

"Yes, sir, about a dozen or so saw a car burst out of this alleyway and almost collide with a passing cable car," Sanchez said, "None of them got a plate number, but they positively identified it as a Toyota, a Hyundai, a Ford, a Honda, a Dodge, a Subaru, a Chevrolet, or Kia SUV."

"It can only be one of them," I said, "Unless I'm meant to believe that there were seven or eight different vehicles in the alleyway."

"Kendra, what I think Sanchez is implying is that no witness can get a positive ID on the make or model of the car that left the alley," Adrian said.

I grinned at him. "I know that, Adrian. I'm joking." I politely planted a small kiss on his cheek.

"Kendra, you shouldn't be kissing me at crime scenes," Adrian said.

"Why not?" I asked, flirtatiously.

"It might give others the wrong idea," Adrian whispered, "Plus can you imagine how much harassment we'd get if the tabloids got a picture of us in a display of affection?"

"OK," I said. "I won't do it unless we're at an indoor crime scene."

Adrian looked back at the tire tracks.

"Looking from these tire tracks, especially the fact that they're darker in the area by the van, I'd say the driver probably floored it immediately after the fire was set and he'd shot the victims," Adrian said, "In fact, I think the car was waiting here for the van to arrive."

"You get all that from just looking at the tire tracks?" Natalie asked.

"Not just the tire tracks, but the mud," Adrian said.

"I don't see any mud in this alley, Adrian," Natalie said.

"It's at your feet," Adrian said. Natalie and I crouched down and peered at the pavement. Sure enough, there were some very tiny crumbs of mud on the pavement.

"How did we miss that?" Natalie asked.

"I don't miss any dirt, ever," Adrian said, pointing, "And there's more right there, about five steps behind you, Natalie."

"Really?" Natalie asked.

"There's no dirt between these two little deposits," Adrian said, "I think the car that was sitting here was idling."

"Does that mean anything?"

"The dirt wasn't shaken off anywhere else but these two distinct points about one car length apart, which is about the approximate distance between the front and rear license plates. No one saw the license plate numbers because they were covered with mud."

"So we're dealing with someone covering their tracks," I said, "O'Donnell possibly being one of those involved."

"Probably," Adrian said.

"I'll have the lab test the dirt," Sanchez said, "We'll also see if we can get a VIN number off the van here, and IDs on the victims."

"Thanks, Sanchez," Adrian said, "You're a real help."

"My pleasure, sir," Sanchez replied.

"While you're at it, also do a ballistic check on the bullets," Adrian said, "Oh, and have every car wash checked. The guy might try to wash his vehicle."

"Will do," Sanchez said.

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I left the scene about thirty minutes later and returned to our apartment. It had been a very long day, with an armored car robbery and triple shooting, the homicide of a woman in a Noe Valley house, an assassination attempt on a bank's chairman, and the subsequent murders of the henchmen who carried out the attack.

Thanks to our unique status with the police department, we didn't have to write down reports on computers. That was left to the officers who'd interviewed us after the shooting. Therefore, there was no need to give a report of our actions during the attack.

As I sat down on the couch in the living room, I exhaled a few deep breaths as I tried to gather myself together following the events of the shooting. I'd never seen anything like it before. This was the first time in a few months I'd seen assault rifles being used by a party other than the SWAT teams. I began to think about all the other ways the events of the assassination could have unfolded and how deadly they would have been.

Adrian sat down next to me.

"Are you okay, Kendra?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Adrian," I said. I took another deep breath. "I've—I've just never seen this many execution-style murders in one day."

"It's perfectly normal," he said. He leaned in and kissed me softly on the mouth. I smiled. "In fact, you're probably lucky you're even one of the few people who have dealt with this type of crime first hand who intervened in the most dramatic of ways."

"Well, what if we'd started shooting earlier? Would the driver and bodyguard have lived?"

"Maybe," Adrian said, "Maybe not."

"Well, we could have," I said, "And we could have been killed."

"You don't know that, Kendra," Adrian said, "But let's not dwell on dire hypotheticals. The point is, some thugs just tried to assassinate the chairman of El Dorado Trust and his wife, we killed the guys trying to carry it out, and the rest of the guys got away, and then someone else, who we believe to be Douglas O'Donnell, killed them."

Natalie was sitting in the chair across the coffee table from Adrian and me. She smiled, acknowledging credit to Adrian where it was necessary.

I shook my head. "I don't know. And it could've been a lot worse."

"Kendra, don't dwell so much on what happened," Adrian said.

"I don't get it," Natalie said, "Why would Douglas O'Donnell target a bank chairman, just hours after robbing an armored car?"

"There are many possible motives," Adrian shrugged, "Maybe they weren't targeting the chairman at all."

"They weren't?" Natalie asked.

"Perhaps Nicole was the real target," Adrian said.

"Can you be sure of that?" I asked.

"I once solved a murder case that worked like that," Adrian said, "Remember Lawrence Hammond, chairman and CEO of Hammond Equity and Investments? He and his wife were shot and killed in their car in an industrial park. The cops thought that the billionaire was the intended target, but I thought the killer was actually targeting the wife, and her lover, a baseball player who was trying to break the single-season record for home runs in the MLB."

"Yeah," Natalie said, "Maybe."

"So if Nicole McClellan was the target, what motive could there be?" I asked.

"She could've made some enemies, Kendra," Adrian said, "Although I'm inclined to think that Paddy might be the more valuable target. He's worth several billion dollars. Maybe he did banking for Douglas O'Donnell and discovered evidence that O'Donnell was involved in terrorism-for-profit."

"How would someone know that O'Donnell was engaging in terrorism-for-profit?" Natalie asked.

"I'm inclined to think that whatever method Luke Reordan and Denise Hossack were using might have uncovered something," Adrian said, "Short-selling that seems very conveniently timed, maybe."

"Maybe," Natalie said. "Perhaps someone at SEC would have knowledge of this."

That was when her cell phone rang. Natalie sighed and checked the caller. "Kendra, your dad's calling. There's probably been another murder."

She opened the phone.

"Somebody better have just died, Lieutenant," she said, "Who is it this time?" She listened. "What? Oh my god!" She almost dropped the phone in shock.

"What is it?" Adrian asked.

"It's an Intertect agent," Natalie said.

* * *

 **A/N:** The nature of the deaths of the accomplices from the North Beach shooting is supposed to invoke the scene in _Patriot Games_ where Sean Miller is broken out of a prison transport by his fellow terrorists: they ambush his van, pull out the cops who are riding in the vehicle with Miller (one of whom is shot dead while trying to draw a gun), make them lie on their stomachs, and then Miller executes them by shooting them in the back of the head. Remember, _Mr. Monk and the Fighting Irish_ here is not your typical _Monk_ fanfic. Here, the murders are much more violent and much more graphic in nature. That's going to be more evident in future chapters.


	12. A Late Night 200 Foot Balcony Swan Dive

I, of course, now take a break to tell you the tragic story of a certain red Mercedes S-Class sedan parked downtown on the north side of Fell Street where it intersected Market Street, right outside a 25 story apartment building. It had had its roof flattened, and its windows were shattered, which is exactly what you'd expect to have happen to it when a 150-200 pound weight is dropped on it from 20 floors up. And when that same weight happens to be a dead body, well, it creates a pretty bloody and pretty gory mess that attracts crowds of shocked onlookers, a swarm of police officers and crime scene investigators, and, this being San Francisco, the three of us.

That's what we were called to examine on that Wednesday night, after a long day that had included ten homicide victims (I refused to count the henchmen we'd shot during the McClellan ambush as homicide victims).

We were examining the body, and the crushed car. After all those shootings, I was a little queasy.

"You okay, Kendra?" Adrian asked me.

I took a breath. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Horrible, isn't it?" Natalie said.

"Well at least something was here to provide a cushion for his fall," Adrian said, "Not that it did any good."

"What do you mean by a 'cushion'?" Natalie asked.

"If he hit the asphalt, his remains would have splattered everywhere. This is way too perfect," he said, "Too perfect to be a coincidence that this car was parked here to catch the body."

I wasn't uncomfortable around crime scenes or dead bodies, and neither was Natalie. We'd grown used to seeing such graphic scenes over our years fighting crime besides Adrian. And this didn't look half as bad as the corpses of the armored car guards or the hitmen who'd been executed by Douglas O'Donnell or members of his robbery crew. There is a big difference between pushed to your death and being shot at point-blank range.

Adrian walked slowly around the car, holding up his hands in front of him, framing the scene the way a movie director picks and frames his shots. Natalie and I followed him.

He stopped by the driver's side of the car. Then he took out a pair of tweezers and picked up something from the asphalt.

"What is it?" Natalie asked.

"These look like they are ordinary reading glasses," he said. He had found a pair of glasses. One arm had been broken, and both lenses were cracked.

Natalie grabbed an evidence bag from her purse for Adrian to drop his discovery into.

"Maybe he was wearing them when he fell," I said.

"You know, Kendra, I'm not so sure about that," Adrian replied, twiddling his tweezers in his hand, "These were too far from the body for that to have happened."

"Should this be significant?" I asked.

"Maybe," Adrian shrugged. He took a look at the body's feet, sticking out from under a tarp. They looked like the Wicked Witch of the East's feet peeking out from under a house that had landed on her.

"Size 11 shoes," Adrian said, "Nikes."

"Dad's upstairs," I said.

I pointed up to the apartments on the building right next to the street.

Adrian looked up. "Huh, what a nice way to die. Did your dad say anything more about how this guy died?"

"Other than that he was an Intertect employee? He said that whether he fell, jumped, or pushed was not clear, but he had reason to believe that the death was suspicious," Natalie said.

"I'm thinking 'pushed' is the most likely answer, don't you think?" I asked.

Adrian nodded his head. "I have to agree with Kendra. Let's go upstairs and take a look."

* * *

We made our way upstairs, where we found an officer guarding the door to the apartment that presumably belonged to the victim.

"Monk, thanks for coming," my dad said when we entered the apartment. "I hope I didn't interrupt your evening plans here."

"So who's the victim?" Adrian asked.

"His name's David Ellison," my dad said, "49 years old. He was an ex-cop, worked at Intertect Investigations."

"He worked at Intertect?" Adrian asked.

"Yeah," my dad said, "Worked there for the past three years after taking early retirement."

"I assume that's why we're down here," Adrian said, "An Intertect investigator has died."

"Yeah," my dad said, "You work for Intertect, and you think Douglas O'Donnell might be involved in Denise Hossack's and Luke Reordan's deaths, and possibly also the armored car job, so I figured there had to be a connection."

We walked into the apartment. The entry was a narrow hallway that led to a living space, with an open kitchen on the left, another hallway branching off to the right, and the dining and living room straight ahead. Forensics people were taking photographs of everything, and all the lights had been turned up.

Adrian sniffed the air.

"I smell cologne," he said.

I instinctively sniffed to check.

"Yeah, I smell that too," I said, "Smells very familiar."

"Does it smell familiar to either of you?" Adrian asked.

Natalie nodded.

"Smells like cologne that we smelt at the warehouse," she said. "One of the robbers was here."

I turned to my dad.

"So dad, what happened?" I asked.

"The M.E.'s saying 'accidental fall,'" my dad said, "Says he was standing on a chair on his balcony, apparently trying to change a broken lightbulb. The chair he was on was too heavy for his weight. His foot goes through the chair, he slips, and goes over the railing."

"And you doubt that that was the case?" Adrian asked.

"Well, I'm skeptical," my dad said, "And rule of thumb is, it's not an accident until we find proof of it."

* * *

Adrian held up his hands in front of him. He turned and faced the kitchen, examining it at several angles. Then he did a close-up scrutinizing of the floor, the ceiling and the artwork on the walls, and the hall closet, where several coats were hung and shoes were stored. My dad begun to converse with a few forensics techs, while Natalie and I stood behind our friend, watching him analyze.

He then walked into the living room, and noticed a revolver sitting on the edge of the coffee table.

Adrian picked up the revolver.

"Look what we've got here," he said.

"What is it?" Natalie asked.

"There's blood on the tip of the barrel," Adrian said.

"What does it mean?" I asked.

"It means that this revolver was probably used to pistol-whip him," Adrian replied.

Adrian turned his attention to the couch. I saw two pillows on our left-hand side, one by the armrest, the other atop the back of the couch, like Ellison had rested his head against it while reading. Besides the revolver, there were some other items on the coffee table of interest, including two used coffee mugs, emptied of coffee, and an overturned copy of _Cooking Bad: My Life as a Crystal Meth Cook's Partner._

"Looks like he also enjoyed lying down here to read," Adrian said.

I pointed to the coffee cups.

"Must've been drinking, too," I said.

"With whoever probably stopped by to kill him," Adrian said, "I don't think he'd take two coffees in one go."

Adrian, Natalie and I walked over to a sliding glass door that opened onto an unlit narrow balcony with a wrought-iron railing, two wicker chairs, and a very small table with a box of lightbulbs on it. It was dark out, so Adrian used his pen light to provide additional illumination.

"Hmm, this chair's got a hole in it," I said. I pointed to one of the wicker chairs. There was a giant hole in the seat, like a heavy person tried to stand on the chair.

"Maybe his foot fell through it," Natalie suggested.

"Nah, this hole's too large to have come to his foot," Adrian said.

He then looked up at the light fixtures.

"He was changing this lightbulb, right?" he asked, pointing to an unlit, recessed light socket in what was basically the bottom of the next floor's balcony. I squinted to take a look.

"Looks like it," I said.

Adrian looked at the lightbulb box on the table and picked it up. It was an ordinary 100 watt bulb, still in its protective cardboard box.

"100 watts," Natalie said. Adrian then leaned down.

"Whoa, ladies, look at this," he said.

Natalie and I squatted to be at the same facial height as Adrian.

"What is it, Adrian?" I asked.

"Here are the parts from the original lightbulb," he said, "The one Ellison was supposedly removing."

He gestured. There were shards of broken glass on the ground, as was the stem for the filament, which still had some jagged parts around its rim.

"And I think I know what happened here," Adrian commented. "This wasn't an accident. David Ellison was not really changing a lightbulb when his foot went through the seat of this wicker chair and he fell 200 feet to a parked car below."

"He wasn't?" Natalie asked.

"Nope," Adrian nodded, "He was thrown over the railing, probably while unconscious."

* * *

Natalie and I knew better than to question Adrian's conclusions because he was always right about homicide investigations. It was a fact of life. He'd seen something amiss that threw away the entire "accident story". We'd both made peace with Adrian's genius a long time ago.

"So, Ellison was murdered," Natalie said, "Nice."

"You're right, Natalie, no other explanation can explain why Ellison here was killed," Adrian said.

"Well, what really happened?" I asked.

"This whole apartment was trashed," he said.

"It didn't look ransacked to me," Natalie said, "Nor did it look like there was a fight. Nothing looked disturbed in there."

"No, there was no burglary," Adrian said.

Natalie took a sigh of relief. "Thank god."

"Here's what really happened in this apartment," Adrian said, "Ellison was on the couch, reading, when someone rang the doorbell in the lobby. It was probably O'Donnell or someone working for him. Whoever it was, it was someone that Ellison trusted. He buzzed him up here, and set his book down on the coffee table as he got up to answer the door. He greeted the killer, and led him in. They sat down on the couch, and they probably talked for a few minutes."

"What about?" I asked.

"I'm convinced that our good friend Danielle convinced him to do surveillance on O'Donnell," Adrian said, "Remember that we asked Danielle to put O'Donnell under surveillance?"

"Yeah, Adrian, we still remember," Natalie said, "She said she'd get surveillance set up when we told her we thought O'Donnell robbed the armored car."

"So the killer is O'Donnell or possibly one of his accomplices, and whoever it was, they must have found out that they were under surveillance," Natalie said.

"At some point, the killer saw the revolver and decided to use it. So he picked up the revolver, and struck Ellison over the head, knocking him out."

"Sorry, sir, but can I interrupt?" Natalie asked.

"Yeah, go ahead," Adrian said.

"Maybe that was where Ellison's reading glasses were broken," she said. Adrian looked over the railing, down at the body.

"You could be right," he replied, "A hit to the head with a book or the barrel of a revolver would have been adequate enough. Besides, I noticed some bits of glass from his lenses lodged in the couch cushions."

"The killer had to throw the guy's reading glasses over the railing after he tossed the body over to cover up the fact that the hit with the revolver was done to cause it," I said.

"Exactly, Kendra," Adrian said.

"So what happens after knocking Ellison out?" Natalie asked.

"Now that he has knocked his victim out," Adrian said, "The killer then grabbed a fresh lightbulb from the closet. On the way back in, he bumped his shin against the coffee table."

"Hmm," I said.

"Then O'Donnell put down this lightbulb box," Adrian pointed to the box with the new light bulb, "and tried climbing on this wicker chair here…." He grabbed the wicker chair with the hole through it, "….to try reaching for the light fixture."

"So was the chair not strong enough?" I asked.

"I'd say yes," Natalie said.

"That's what it looks like," Adrian said, "So the killer had to grab a dining room chair, and stand on that to remove the original light bulb from its fixture. Then he broke the deck chair by stomping on it with his foot."

"This isn't a dining room chair," I smirked, "It's not even the right style."

"He took the dining room back inside," Adrian continued, "Planted the weaker deck chair in its place, then he tossed the body and the reading glasses over the railing."

I held up my finger.

"But the wicker chair was the wrong size," I said.

Adrian looked at it.

"And yes, you can tell from looking at this chair that Ellison could not have been standing on it, changing a light bulb," he said.

"And how can you tell that?" Natalie asked.

"One, this hole was made by a man who has size twelve shoes. Two, if you looked at the coats in his closet, he's 5'7". He's a tad bit too short to reach this fixture without using a stepladder, and he has size 9 feet. Our guy was at least 6'1"."

"Besides that?" Natalie asked.

He then pointed to the lightbulb box, and then to the fixture.

"This bulb is a 100 watt bulb, which would match the lamp by the couch, and would overload a 75 watt light fixture."

"What about the part where he bumped his shin against the coffee table?" I asked.

"If you noticed, the sunlight pours into this apartment from the south and east every morning. This constant exposure has gradually bleached the tabletop over the past few years. When he banged into the table, all of the items on it were jolted, exposing darker wood."

I looked back at the coffee table, and saw that there was an outline of a bowl of seashells burned onto the tabletop, like a shadow. I wondered how I could have not noticed that. I guess my mind, like Natalie's, is wired to notice this stuff but not pay attention to it unless we are told to pay attention to it.

"You know, that wicker chair clearly splintered," Natalie said, "It's not exactly the sturdiest wood out there."

"You're right, Natalie, it would," Adrian continued, "Most likely, there are small wood fragments on the seat of the dining room chair that the killer used, as they probably were lodged in his shoes."

Adrian and I looked down on the street below, where the coroner's office had removed David Ellison's body and was just loading it into the back of their van.

"Hmm, looks like the people who specialize in circumcisions are leaving," Adrian commented, leaning with his arms on the railing.

I walked over to him.

"Nice view," I said, putting my left arm around his right. "I mean, the city lights, and the traffic going by on Market Street." Adrian looked at me. I noticed he was blushing.

"You aren't planning to kiss me now, are you?" I asked.

"The thought occurred to me," Adrian gave me a slight peck on the face.

* * *

We stepped back inside to inform my dad of what we'd found.

"Amazing," he said when Adrian was done summarizing what happened, "It's good that we have a mind like yours around, Monk, especially at times like this."

"Yeah, I know, sir," Adrian said, "But we still have armored car robbers to catch."

"For sure," my dad nodded, stroking his chin.

"What do you suppose you can do about the scene here?" I asked.

"We'll pull the security tapes from the lobby," my dad said, "Of course, whoever did this probably found a way to either bypass the cameras or turn his head to avoid showing his face."

"I kinda figured that," Adrian said. "Might as well also check cameras outside to see if any suspicious vehicles were in the area at the time of the murder."

"Speaking of which, is there anything on the armored car robbery?" I asked.

"We just got the manifest," my dad said, handing us a file folder. "They took about $15 million."

"Sweet," Natalie said.

"And you were right about Melissa Carney being an inside source," my dad said.

"I was?" Adrian asked.

"Yep," my dad said, "We don't have any phone calls, but three days ago, she received an envelope with about $500,000 in it, all in $100s."

"Did you trace it?" Adrian asked.

"It was postmarked from Pacific Heights," my dad said, "No prints, no DNA. Whoever sent it clearly knew what he was doing. And the money was also untraceable."

"It usually is," Adrian said.

"And right now, we're checking out every money launderer or fence in the city who could handle a big haul like the one just pulled off."

"That's great," Natalie said, "What about the attempted murders of the McClellan couple?"

"We're still trying to identify the bodies of the henchmen from the van that was torched in the alley," my dad said. "But it looks like they probably were shot by whoever shot the armored car guys. You were, after all, right about the M.O. being the same. And ballistics is certain that they were shot with the same gun as the guards."

"What about potential suspects?" I asked.

"They're worth a lot, Kendra," my dad said, "A list of enemies for someone like Paddy McClellan reads like a phone directory."

"All right," I said.

* * *

Once we got back to the penthouse, I turned in for the night and retired to soak for about an hour in my bathtub. As I let the hot water relax my muscles, my first thought was that this had been one busy day of murder, death and destruction. Douglas O'Donnell had murdered two journalists who must have found out that he was plotting to rob an armored car, and possibly had found out about his attempt to assassinate Paddy McClellan, the chairman of El Dorado Trust. And now he'd apparently murdered an Intertect investigator that Danielle had somehow convinced to conduct surveillance on the man. Clearly, O'Donnell was not a man to be trifled with, and he was willing to kill if that was what was necessary to keep whatever he was planning under wraps. He was the kind of criminal that in action movies usually exits the movie world in a body bag. Those thoughts were still on my mind as I went to sleep.


	13. The Calm in the Midst of the Storm

When I got up at 6:30 the next morning, I went straight for the shower. I spent the shower thinking about the gory crime scenes we'd seen the day before. Over breakfast, we swapped sections of the _San Francisco Chronicle_ amongst ourselves. Almost as expected, the front page of the paper was an article about the attempted assassination on Paddy and Nicole McClellan and it was headlined with a photo of police officers looking over the bodies of the henchmen we had killed (all of which were, by that point, covered in yellow sheets):

* * *

 **Off-Duty Detectives Thwart Attempted Murder of El Dorado Trust Chairman And Wife**

 _There is a feeling of outrage in the city of San Francisco today over what has been dubbed an unprecedented terrorist assault. According to eyewitness accounts, at approximately 1:43 p.m., armed gunmen attempted to murder Paddy McClellan, Chairman of the El Dorado Trust, and his wife Nicole. The McClellan couple would almost certainly have been killed if it weren't for the intervention of three off-duty San Francisco Police Department inspectors who were having lunch at a nearby diner, who engaged and killed the suspected gunmen in a shootout._

 _"_ _We can confirm that there were also two fatalities in Mr. McClellan's vehicle, including his driver Arthur Tumpkins and bodyguard Marty Sheen," said department spokesman Captain Leland Stottlemeyer at a press conference on Wednesday night, "However, we are not at liberty to comment on the identities of the cops involved, as this is still an open investigation."_

 _While no group has taken responsibility for the attempted assault, Captain Stottlemeyer went on to report that there are suspicions that the crime is tied to Irish gang activity, including the suspected double murder of two Bullseye journalists._

 _Captain Stottlemeyer refused to comment on whether or not the execution-style shooting of four men in a back alleyway near Chinatown is connected to the attempted assassination._

* * *

I honestly couldn't read much further. It was almost too painful to read about something we'd personally been involved in. The armored car robbery was also mentioned at several other points in the story. However, Captain Stottlemeyer was quoted as saying that there were, at the moment, no visible connections between the armored car and the attack in North Beach, although the SFPD's investigators were exploring the possibility.

"At least the Captain's good at filtering information passed on from investigators," I said, "I'll give him that."

"Kendra, that's the only reason Leland even is in that position," Adrian said, "He's a guy who's good at knowing what the press is allowed to know, and drawing the line to both satisfy the press's demand for answers, but not make it so that the inspectors can't do their job right."

"And that's a likeable quality," I said.

"Meanwhile, we've just got a bunch of pretty frustrating murders to solve here," Adrian said, "It's like the only thing we can do is wait."

"Wait for what?" Natalie asked.

"Facts to fall into place, or fresh leads to come out of the ground."

"Is that what they do?" Natalie asked.

"Generally," he said, "The big problem about this case is that we're up against an adversary who knows how to cover his tracks. You saw what Douglas O'Donnell's organization did at Denise Hossack's house. Whoever went there stole any information Denise had, and the same happened with whoever killed Luke Reordan. We know the identity of at least one conspirator from the armored car robbery, but we don't know who else was a participant in the robbery because, presumably, O'Donnell is pretty careful and meticulous. We even know how he attempted to have Paddy McClellan assassinated through a vehicular ambush, but we can't link it back to him because there are probably no usable prints on either van, one of which has been torched, and everyone who was directly involved in carrying out the crime is dead, either shot by us, or by O'Donnell's gang."

"We've dealt with bigger challenges than that," I said, "What about the chessmaster we caught last month? That Kloster guy?"

"That was one guy," Adrian said, "We're talking about a master criminal who's clearly plotting something big. Really big, and really messy."

"And what can we do about it?" Natalie asked.

"Presumably we have to hope that O'Donnell doesn't try to go after the McClellans in another way," Adrian said, "He reads the newspapers, Natalie, just like you, me, and Kendra do. And given his position on the police commission, he probably has inside access to the progress of the police investigation. That means the stakes are higher. The standard of evidence to even secure an indictment is much different than if we were handling a blue collar criminal."

"He's like some sort of Professor Moriarty," I said.

"Exactly, Kendra," Adrian said, "From what we know of Douglas O'Donnell, based on the fact that Luke Reordan and Denise Hossack were murdered while investigating him and what we saw yesterday, at the warehouse, in North Beach, and in Chinatown, he's not one of those irrational people to commit crimes on a spur of the moment whim or in a dangerous situation. He's scheming, plotting every move he makes, like a tiger stalks his prey. He has to have been planning this stuff for a while. Let's just hope that that Intertect operative who was killed last night wasn't the operative Danielle assigned to tail O'Donnell."

"Yeah, let's hope," Natalie said. "I mean, let's face it, I personally think Douglas O'Donnell behaves more like an Irish terrorist than a bank robber, just based on the attack he carried out yesterday. Where could we even start to check for accomplices?"

"I would say David Ellison was probably our best chance," Adrian said, "If our assumptions that Danielle hired him are true. Now that he's dead, I doubt that any of the other Intertect investigators will be willing to handle surveillance on their own boss."

"Why not? They're afraid they'll be next, too?" Natalie asked.

"Probably," Adrian said.

"What leads can we hunt down?" I asked.

"Kendra, I think we should actually start today at Danielle's," Adrian said, "Let's see if she really did assign David Ellison to shadow O'Donnell. Assuming he did uncover any information that she could relay to us, we can then act on that information to flush out inconsistencies and determine who in this criminal conspiracy is doing what." He paused for a moment. "Look, Kendra, Natalie, if we can close this case and manage to secure the arrest of O'Donnell and/or some of the conspirators in his crimes, that can be another birthday present."

Natalie smiled, and I gave Adrian a flirtatious grin.

That was when Natalie's cell phone rang.

"And, Kendra, that's your dad," she said. She flipped her phone open.

"Lieutenant, good morning!" she said, cheerfully.

"Morning, Natalie," my dad said, "Are you guys still at your apartment?"

"Yeah, we still are," Natalie said, "You aren't interrupting us in the middle of anything."

"Good," my dad said.

"What have you got, Lieutenant?"

"I think we've caught a big break in the armored car case," my dad said.

"That's wonderful!" Natalie said, "Not even 24 hours and we might have a new lead that actually goes somewhere!"

"If you'd like to see the lead for yourself, you can find it out where I'm calling from, at Baker Beach."

"What have you found?" Natalie asked.

"A body just turned up here," my dad said, "You're going to want to see it for yourself."

"Has something happened?" Natalie asked.

"Well I can tell you two things over the phone," my dad said, "One, it looks pretty nasty, and two, it's probably someone who actually participated in the robbery."

"OK," Natalie said, "Baker Beach. We can be there in about 15 to 20 minutes."


	14. Alligator Attack!

Baker Beach is the idyllic half-mile stretch of sand beneath the bluff of the Presidio. There's a striking view of the Golden Gate Bridge to the northeast that provides a decent illustration of how the span got its name if you visit the beach in the evening. Even though it's a picture-worthy sight, I don't see the need to take a picture of the bridge because I'd rather save space on my camera for ski trips, crime scene investigations, and special events with Adrian, Natalie and me.

When we arrived about 20 minutes after receiving my dad's phone call, we found my dad leaning against a brown sign that read "DANGER! Hazardous Surfing Conditions. Proceed at your own risk!" His face seemed to be carrying the same look. As Adrian, Natalie and I got out of our car, we each put on our sunglasses, figuring that we'd need them due to the sun glare.

"Monk, Kendra, Natalie," my dad said, "You three seem very peppy today."

"Dad, we're always peppy whenever there's a fresh murder," I said. "Surely you'd know that with me, at least. I've been your daughter for almost 28 years. Well, not quite 28, but it will be 28 exactly once Sunday comes and goes."

My dad smiled.

"Ah, yes, how could I forget your birthday's this Sunday, Kendra?" my dad said.

"Are you getting me some shiny jewelry for my birthday?" I asked.

My dad seemed taken off-guard by my remark. "What jewelry?"

"You had a box on your desk two days ago," I said.

"Oh, that, right," my dad said, "Yes, I'm getting you something for your birthday, Kendra. But, for the moment, can we focus on the work here?"

"So what's the case here?" Natalie asked. "You said it was important."

"Well before I show it to you, can I ask if you've eaten anything in the last hour?" my dad asked.

"Yes," Adrian said, "Mostly bacon."

"Just curious," my dad said, "We've already seen quite a number of brutal murders in the past couple days, but none that look like this."

My dad tipped his head towards the rocks and tide pools up behind him. There was a huddle of cops and crime scene techs gathered around what I presumed was the body. Adrian took notice of them, and then took notice of the sunbathers loitering on the beach. There were about a dozen or so of them, all of them letting it hang out (by 'it', I'm referring to their skin). And look, that's not metaphorical, that's literal. These weren't supermodels trying to work on their tans, these were people on whom the full force of gravity, fatty foods, and age had taken their toll. I had to admire their casual confidence and lack of shame, and the fact that they were totally comfortable with their bodies and had accepted any imperfections they had as natural facts of life. I, of course, also was comfortable with my body and any imperfections I had, but I didn't need to go _sans clothes_ to show my comfort with imperfections.

"You sure it isn't a sunbather you found?" Adrian asked.

"I don't think so, Adrian," my dad said, "But since you're the guy we call whenever somebody dies under suspicious circumstances, you're here."

"Well, take us to her," Adrian replied.

* * *

We followed my dad to the scene, located on a section of the beach which had been cleared of sunbathers. The forensics team was already there, clad in jumpsuits. They were carefully sifting through sand, all separated into quadrants with stakes and yellow string.

"The victim's name was Martha Jansen, 35 years old, unmarried," my dad said, "She worked at Davenport Waste & Recycling."

"Garbage truck driver," Adrian said.

"So who found her?" I asked.

"Some of the sunbathers found her about an hour ago," my dad said.

"What's the coroner saying?" Natalie asked.

"He thinks the girl died sometime last night, maybe around ten or so, but the body's been immersed in salt water, so we don't know exactly."

We were following a staked out path that had already been cleared by forensics, which led us to the body. The coroner was there, leaning over the body of Martha Jansen, floating facedown in the tide pool, wearing only her bra and underwear. Her midsection had been ripped open.

Now, most people would be sickened and repulsed by such a sight. But not me, and not Natalie, and not Adrian. We're more the kind to be fascinated by dead bodies, especially mutilated ones. Now there's probably a reason for that. That might be that we didn't see the body as that of a human being. We just saw it as an object.

"Sweet Jesus," I said.

"Looks like she got bitten or something," Natalie said.

"I believe the word is 'mauled,' Natalie," Adrian said.

"So, any ideas here, Adrian?" my dad asked. "With the robbery on hand, and the McClellan assassination attempt, Leland really wants all the information he can get before the press gets wind of this. A death of this type tends to attract a lot of media attention. And we're already swamped with the other O'Donnell-related crimes. Not to mention that immigrant homicide case."

"Oh, the Katie Steinway homicide from last week," Natalie said, "I thought that would have dropped off the radar already."

"I thought so, too," my dad said. "But the revelation that the guy was in the country illegally is really stirring up some peoples' immigration stances, what with the President scheduled to make a campaign appearance this Sunday and all."

"Uh, yeah, thanks for that info," I said, "can we focus on this lady here, though?"

Adrian rose without saying a word and held his hands up in front of him. He tipped his head from side to side as he looked at the body of the late Martha Hossack from various angles. Natalie and I followed him, dutifully. After a few minutes, he shifted his gaze over to Martha's clothes, neatly folded on a nearby rock.

"Where was her wallet?" Adrian asked.

"Found it in her pants pocket," my dad said, producing the evidence bag, "Nothing's been taken, as far as I can tell. Her credit cards are all still there and there's about $1,000 in loose cash in there, too."

"And her car keys?" Adrian asked.

"Same place," my dad said, "House keys, too."

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Yeah, some shards of Plexiglas," my dad said.

"So you're thinking she was a participant in the armored car job," Natalie said.

"That's correct, she probably was the one who assisted in gassing out the guards," my dad replied. "Most likely the one who drilled the hole."

"Where's her car?" Adrian asked.

"According to the DMV, she drives a Lexus sedan and it is nowhere to be found near here. I've issued an APB on it just in case," my dad said.

"So her car is not in the nearby neighborhood at all," I said, "How did she get here if she didn't drive?"

"By taxi or by bus, Kendra," Natalie said, "Or someone dropped her off."

"We'll call the taxi companies and talk with the bus drivers on the routes that service this area to see if anyone recalls seeing her," my dad said.

"I think this is a popular make-out spot at night," Natalie said, "Perhaps she came with a friend to go skinny-dipping."

Adrian looked at the body, then at the beach parking lot.

"Were there any vehicles left unattended overnight?" he asked.

"No," my dad said.

"This friend could live nearby," Natalie said, "And they walked over."

"Or he parked over in that neighborhood," my dad said, pointing, "But without an idea of who this person is or what car to look for, all we would be able to do if take down a couple hundred license plates from every car parked in the area and work backwards. That's a lot of man hours, and considering the potential ties to the armored car heist, I'm thinking that a search based on license plates would be an exercise in futility."

"If Martha Jansen came with a friend," Adrian asked, "Where is he or she now?"

"Maybe her body hasn't washed up yet," Natalie said.

"Where are the friend's clothes, Natalie?" Adrian asked.

"Washed away by the tide?" Natalie shrugged.

Adrian rolled his head and shoulders, trying to work out a kink. I knew that kink. It was the one he did when there were too many could-haves, maybes, and what-ifs.

"Doc, what do you think the cause of death is here?" Adrian asked.

The coroner turned the body face-up. Martha was in her late 30s, and looked fairly young, and pretty, though not as pretty as other homicide victims we'd come across. At least her face had been spared the brutal ravaging done to the rest of her body.

"Unofficially, I'd say this is a drowning," Dr. Howard said, "These wounds are pretty serious but they don't look fatal."

"So what did this to her?" Natalie asked. "A shark?"

"Probably not," Dr. Howard said, "The bite curvature and the amount of flesh torn away isn't consistent with a shark bite. The bite parameter is long and narrow, which suggests a creature with a muzzle or a snout."

"A wolf?" I asked.

"No, those move in packs and they'd have torn him apart," Adrian said, "There's too much intact Jansen left to be a wolf attack. Plus wolves aren't native to the San Francisco ecosystem."

I smiled at Adrian.

"I'm joking, Adrian," I said.

"A very hungry boar?" Natalie asked.

"Not native to this area either," my dad said.

"A vicious dog then," Natalie said.

"A dog would go for the throat, not the midsection," Dr. Howard said.

"A mighty seal," Natalie said.

"The bite isn't consistent with a seal," Dr. Howard said, "Mighty or small."

"A giant clam!" Natalie said. Everyone within earshot who was paying attention gave Natalie a look. She burst out laughing. A moment later, Adrian and I joined in too.

"Do you realize how large a clam would have to be, Natalie, to attack a human?" my dad asked.

"An alien disguised as a clam then," Natalie said, "Hey, I could imagine that being a type of species on _Doctor Who._ "

"You keep saying that, Natalie," I said, still mildly amused at her mass guessing.

My dad turned to Adrian. "What do you think did this?"

"An alligator," Adrian said.

"I see," my dad said. "So, Natalie, tell me again about that extraterrestrial clam."

"It wasn't a clam, it was most certainly an alligator," Adrian said.

"Sir, you do know that alligators are freshwater creatures, not saltwater creatures?" Dr. Howard asked.

"Doc, I know that," Adrian said.

"And alligators also aren't native to the San Francisco Bay Area?" Dr. Howard asked.

"Yes," Adrian said.

"So what makes you think an alligator did this?" Dr. Howard asked.

"From the shape of the bite, and the puncture marks left by each tooth," Adrian said, "They're identical."

Dr. Howard leaned closer to the body and examined the injuries. "Now that you mention it, I think you're right."

"Unlike us, who have teeth of different shapes, sizes and functions, alligator teeth are identical," Adrian said, "They primarily use their teeth to grasp their prey."

"Why would you know that?" Natalie asked.

"Uniform dentition," I said, "All the teeth are the same."

"Uniform dentition, indeed," Adrian said, "Teeth that can only be used for one task and nothing more."

"I suppose that an alligator could've done this," Dr. Howard said, "They don't normally rip their prey apart. They grab them, bite down on them, and hold them underwater until they drown. That's consistent with the injuries here, and the probable cause of death. But there are lots of other explanations for this, too."

"Like those other animals I just mentioned," Natalie said.

My dad grimaced and rubbed his temples. "So, doc, is this a case for Robbery-Homicide or for Animal Control?"

"I don't know," Dr. Howard said, "Ask me tonight. I'm putting her autopsy on the fast-track just in case."

"OK," my dad said. "So, Adrian, what do you think? Is this murder?"

"Yes, it is," Adrian said. "Is there anything else that we need to know?"

"Not at the moment," my dad said, "We're checking her background, though, to see if there's anything suspicious. You might stop by her employer's office today if you have a chance."

"Nothing new on the McClellan attack?" I asked. "I assume there have to be some leads on him in the past 18 hours."

"We ID'd the executed gunmen," my dad said, "All of them known criminals, aside from the Intertect guys that you killed. All of them apparently received payoffs from an offshore bank a couple days ago."

"Very convenient," Adrian said. "What about the torched van?"

"On the van?" my dad said. "Oh, the car was badly burned but we did manage to get a partial VIN number. According to the DMV, the van was reported stolen on Monday."

"No prints?" Natalie asked.

"Ix-nay on the ints-pray," my dad replied.

"Come again?"

"No fingerprints," my dad said, "I mean, if there were any prints we could have lifted, they were destroyed when the van was set on fire. Arson thinks gasoline was probably used as an artificial accelerant."

"OK," Adrian said, "Thanks." He turned to me and Natalie. "What do you say, we go talk to Danielle Hossack again? Hopefully she's got that background check on O'Donnell completed."

I smiled at him. "That sounds great, Adrian."

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, that's a clever reference to real city politics when I refer to 'Katie Steinway' and immigration in a throwaway line. This is supposed to refer to the controversy surrounding San Francisco's "sanctuary laws".


	15. Douglas O'Donnell Background Check

This case had just gotten more exciting. A girl, a suspected conspirator in the armored car robbery, mauled by an alligator. That's really exciting. As in, for me, sexually arousing to the point that I had to resist the urge to make out with Adrian as we drove away from Baker Beach. And we were eager to find out what in Martha Hossack's life might explain the circumstances of her death.

But even though Adrian had declared Martha Jansen's death to be a murder, my dad was right, he couldn't commit full police resources to her death until the medical examiner completed the autopsy.

I could understand my dad's dilemma. All he was stuck with was a dead woman on a nude beach who might or might not have been killed by an alligator. While that was the kind of situation to raise many big questions, like "How did the girl get to the beach?" or "Where did the alligator come from?", there wasn't really much pointing to murder other than Adrian's opinion, and the shards of Plexiglas found in Martha's pants. And while Adrian has never been wrong about matters involving murder ever, and the higher-ups in the SFPD were also as confident in his abilities as my dad was, there was a game of politics that had to be played. This meant that while the department could open an unofficial investigation into Martha's death, a full-on task force type investigation would have to wait until the autopsy was completed.

* * *

But Adrian, Natalie and I didn't have to wait. Nor could we. We wanted to get down to business trying to link Martha Jansen back to Douglas O'Donnell to confirm our suspicions that she was a conspirator in the armored car robbery. And the sooner we got a head start on the investigation, the sooner we'd find the links and the sooner we'd solve her death.

But our first stop that day wasn't at Martha Jansen's workplace or at her apartment. It was back at Danielle Hossack's house.

"Hello," Danielle said when she opened the door.

"Hello again, Danielle," Adrian said, "Is this a bad time?" She looked at him, then at me and at Natalie.

"No, it's not, I was just working out," Danielle said.

Once again, we were in Danielle's living room, sitting on her couch.

"Danielle, yesterday, you told us you had the authority to sanction putting Douglas O'Donnell under surveillance," Adrian said.

Danielle nodded.

"Did you get anything pertaining to O'Donnell?" Adrian asked.

"Oh, you want an update?" Danielle asked. "One moment." She disappeared to her bedroom to pick up some file folders.

"I worked with a fellow operative of mine follow our boss yesterday afternoon," Danielle said, "Looks like you're right, Mr. Monk. Douglas O'Donnell isn't quite the philanthropic member of the police commission that he makes himself out to be."

"If he's not that, what is he?" I asked.

Danielle opened the file folder and produced some photos.

"These are photos that the operative and I took," Danielle said. The photos appeared to show O'Donnell sitting in a booth at a restaurant with three other men. Based on the furnishings, it had to be some kind of Irish pub. Seated next to O'Donnell was a guy who looked to be about maybe a year or so younger than him, with dark black hair and a crew cut. He looked like a grown-up Kevin McCallister with hair dye.

Seated across from O'Donnell was a man in his mid-forties with a bushy mustache and slightly receded blond hairline, that reminded me of a county sheriff the three of us had met in Colorado the previous winter. The other guy was an African-American man with a shaved head who looked to be in his mid-thirties. What I couldn't help but notice about O'Donnell and his tablemates was that all four of them looked like they were wearing shoulder holsters.

"He had a meeting with some people," Adrian said.

"Did you get a name for this restaurant?" Natalie asked.

"It's an Irish pub in the Mission District," Danielle said, "McCabe's, down on Mission Street."

"We've been there before," Adrian said, looking at me and Natalie, "Go on."

"O'Donnell is a regular at this particular restaurant," Danielle said, "David and I took these photos. I downloaded them to my computer. Then I used some programs to cross-reference the faces with mugshots in a police database. That took me practically most of the night to complete."

"And who are these people O'Donnell is meeting with?" I asked.

Danielle handed us one of the file folders. The photos in it were of the McCallister lookalike.

"That guy who's seated next to O'Donnell in the photos is Edward O'Brien," Danielle said, "41 years old. He's Intertect's CFO, actually."

"The chief financial officer of the company is also in on it?" Natalie asked.

Danielle sighed. "Looks like it. I did a thorough background check on him and he has no priors, no convictions, guy was as clean as a whistle."

"And who are the guys across the table?" Adrian asked.

"The white guy with the mustache, his name is Dennis Donoghue," Danielle said, handing the three of us another file folder. "48 years old. And he's got quite a few red flags on him."

"What do you mean?" Adrian asked.

"He's got a pretty lengthy rap sheet," Danielle said, "Assault, armed robbery. He just got out of prison about six months ago after a three year sentence for robbing a jewelry store. Before that, he was responsible for running an organized car theft ring."

"Ah, that's comforting," I said, "Perhaps it would explain the gang's ability to acquire vehicles for their crimes."

"And the black guy is Bobby Murdoch," Danielle said, handing the last file over, "He's known to be good with explosives. He also has a couple of convictions for burglaries and receiving stolen property."

Adrian, Natalie and I sat there for a moment, trying to take all this new information in. So far as we knew, Douglas O'Donnell had a meeting at an Irish pub with his own CFO, and two ex-cons who were involved in thefts.

"Did you get a tracker on his car?" I asked.

"Unfortunately, no," Danielle said, "I couldn't find anything that could be stuck on his car that didn't stick out."

"Well at least it was a considered possibility," Natalie said

"You do have some background on O'Donnell, right?" Adrian asked. "I believe we asked you about that yesterday."

"Yes, I do," Danielle said, "Uh, me and a couple other operatives managed to put together a whole profile on him."

"Elaborate for us," Natalie said.

* * *

Danielle explained that Douglas O'Donnell was born in Derry, Ireland, in late June 1976, the son of Kevin O'Donnell and Rita Mulligan. While he had an uneventful childhood, aside, of course, from the strains of growing up during The Troubles, in 1992, he found out that his father was a member of the Ulster Liberation Army, a splinter faction of the Irish Republican Army. This was right before his father was killed during the attempted assassination of a member of the British royal family. O'Donnell and his mother immigrated to the United States soon afterwards, settling down in San Francisco. After graduating from college in 1998, O'Donnell took a number of odd jobs. At the suggestion of his best friend, Edward O'Brien, he joined the police force in 2001 and became a Vice cop.

"How did you find out about all of this?" Adrian asked.

"I was able to pull his confidential police employment file from Internal Affairs," Danielle said.

"I thought Internal Affairs wouldn't give private information to people like you," Natalie said.

"I have many friends in the SFPD," Danielle said, "Plus I was able to look at all relevant federal, state, county, and local records, both here and in Ireland."

Adrian nodded, mildly impressed. Danielle had access to resources I couldn't even imagine.

Danielle continued. O'Donnell, based on what she'd found, spent much of his career in Vice. Just what he did on the Vice Squad, she wasn't able to dig up because much of his file had been redacted. A lot of his work had been in undercover investigations, primarily drug dealing. Then in 2014, O'Donnell evidently decided that he'd had enough of working as a cop, and made some strategic investments, allowing him to make enough money to start Intertect Investigations. He appointed O'Brien, who'd worked in forensic accounting all this time, to be his CFO.

"So it sounds to me like O'Donnell's past could be tied into this," Adrian said. "Then again, maybe it doesn't."

"Probably," Natalie said.

"Out of curiosity, Danielle, who was this operative you said was with you when you took these photos last night?" Adrian asked, gesturing to the photos of O'Donnell's tablemates on the coffee table.

"David Ellison," Danielle said, "I dated him a couple times over the past few years. He was assisting me. Why do you ask?"

"Because David Ellison is dead," Adrian said, handing Danielle a crime scene picture of Ellison's bloodied body lying on top of the car.

Danielle looked at the photograph, stunned. It didn't take long for her expression of shock to turn into one of rage. She balled the picture up and threw it at a wall.

"Damn!" Danielle said.

"Are you all right?" Natalie asked.

Danielle took several deep breaths.

"Oh, he's going to pay big-time for this," she muttered.

"It looks to me like O'Donnell must have noticed you two taking pictures of him at that pub, and in response, some of his men went to Ellison's place and killed him," Adrian said.

"I hate this," Danielle said.

"I know, we're sorry for your newest loss," Natalie said.

"What else can you tell us about David Ellison?" Adrian asked.

"I worked with the guy for the past eighteen months," Danielle said, "He was a nice guy. Never made any enemies."

"Did he have any loved ones in the Bay Area?" I asked. "Lovers, girlfriends, family, friends?"

"No, not that I would be aware of," Danielle said. "He was a very private individual."

"OK," Adrian said. He turned to Natalie and me. "Natalie, Kendra, do you think we should…?"

"Oh, I see," I said. "We think we might have identified a potential conspirator in the armored car robbery."

"Who?" Danielle asked.

"A woman named Martha Jansen, do you know her?" Natalie asked.

"Nope, never had the pleasure," Danielle said.

"Martha Jansen turned up dead this morning at Baker Beach," Adrian said, "Apparently she was mauled to death by an alligator-"

"Those can't survive in San Francisco," Danielle interrupted.

"Yes, that's true," Adrian continued, "We think that she might have been murdered. I was wondering if you could do some digging on her."

"Sure," she said, "I'll do anything you ask."

"Thanks, Danielle," Natalie said, "You are a godsend."

"Thank you," Danielle said. "I'll see if I can find anything to cross-reference my sister or Luke Reordan to O'Donnell, O'Brien, Murdoch and Donoghue."

"And also cross reference them to Miss Jansen, too," I said, "Don't forget her."

"I won't," Danielle said.

* * *

We were soon out the door and on our way to Martha Jansen's workplace. It was a good distance to travel without the siren on, and since we were our own captive audience, we talked about the case as we drove.

"We're still certain that Martha Jansen's death is murder, right?" Natalie asked.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "No one gets attacked by an alligator in San Francisco."

"It could happen," Natalie said.

"Natalie, if this happened in New Orleans, maybe. But on a San Francisco beach, no way."

"What if someone's pet alligator got out and attacked her?" she asked.

"The alligator would have to either scurry across the open sand to get to her," Adrian said, "Or it would have to wait for prey near that tide pool and strike when she sat down on the rocks to undress. It's implausible, either way."

"Maybe Martha drowned and was already dead when the alligator attacked it," Natalie said.

"That's even more implausible," Adrian said.

"I have to agree, Adrian," I said, "We don't know much about Martha Jansen, but she doesn't seem to be the kind of person who would go swimming at Baker Beach. It's too implausible."

"Kendra, I think you're right. Moreover, I don't think she was killed there," Adrian said.

"What makes you think that?" Natalie asked. "Adrian, I'm assuming there's something that makes you think this was a murder and not a freak accident involving a conspirator in an armed robbery."

"Her car wasn't at the scene," Adrian said, "My guess is it's probably near her apartment. That whole situation was staged by someone who dumped her at the beach to make it look like she was skinny-dipping or bathing when she was killed."

"And why would Douglas O'Donnell, or any of his conspirators, commit such a thing?" Natalie asked.

"That's a good question," Adrian said, "I'd say that perhaps O'Donnell and his buddies double-crossed her, just like they double-crossed Melissa Carney, and everyone who carried out the assassination attempt on Paddy McClellan, to keep her from getting her cut of the money."

"Where would we even start?" I asked.

"Her boss ought to remember if she was acting suspicious at any point during the last couple of days," Adrian said.


	16. Apartment Ambush

It sure felt like there was some sort of whiplash in the atmospheres of the various places we were going that day. The day started at our penthouse. Then we'd gone to Baker Beach. Then we'd been to Danielle Hossack's modest house. Now we were on our way out to the city's waste transfer station, where Martha Jansen worked.

All of the city's non-recyclable garbage is driven by truck to the Bayshore Waste Transfer Center, a fancy way of saying "a garbage dump with a roof to keep in the stench". It's where trash collected by the city's garbage trucks drop trash off, and it's subsequently transported by larger trucks to Altamont Landfill in Livermore.

The transfer center is an enormous aircraft hangar on Tunnel Avenue, directly across the street from the Bayshore CalTrain station. It was a testament that we were even here. My dad had called the transfer facility's supervisor so they knew we were coming. When we arrived, we headed not for the warehouse, but the office building adjacent to the station.

Martha Jansen's boss Chad Parker, a guy who was in his 50s with a trimmed goatee, worked in an office on the fifth floor of the building. The entire back wall of the office was a row of windows that looked out over the transfer station floor. The transfer station floor was dominated by a big pile of trash that dwarfed the trucks coming in from their daily runs to empty their haul onto the mound. Tractors were sorting the trash into a complex maze of belts that fed this waste out to larger, long haul trucks parked at the other end of the facility.

"Mr. Parker, I'm Adrian Monk, this is Kendra Davenport and Natalie Teeger," Adrian said when we entered, "We're from the police department."

"Oh, police? Yeah, your lieutenant called and said you were coming," Parker said. "Please, have a seat."

Adrian, Natalie and I pulled up chairs to Parker's desk. Parker sat down in the chair opposite us.

"What brings you guys down here?" Parker asked.

"We're looking into the death of Martha Jansen," Adrian said, "I understand she used to work at this facility."

"That's correct," Parker said, "She worked here for six years. I was her supervisor."

"What exactly did Miss Jansen do for you?" Natalie asked.

"She was a driver," Parker said, "She drove garbage trucks for a living."

"Did Martha have any enemies?" Adrian asked.

"A garbage truck driver doesn't exactly make a lot of enemies on the job," Parker replied, "Aside, maybe, from the occasional motorist."

"Do you remember anything about the last time you saw Martha?" I asked.

"She was last here two days ago," Parker said, "I last saw her driving away in her truck preparing to run her usual route."

"You haven't seen her since?" Adrian asked.

"No," Parker said, "That's when I last saw her alive. She never showed up to work yesterday, and the truck never returned to headquarters here. I called her, but she never answered her phone."

Adrian scratched his chin, nervously.

"Hmm," Adrian said. "It sounds to me like you're describing a woman who probably hid or got rid of her truck to destroy evidence."

"Evidence of what?" Parker asked. "I don't see where you're going."

"You are aware that an armored car was found robbed in Mission Bay yesterday morning?" Natalie asked.

"Everyone knows about that, Miss Teeger," Parker said, "Are you implying Miss Jansen was involved in it?"

"I'm looking at those garbage trucks outside your window," Natalie pointed to the trucks that were currently offloading garbage onto the mound, "And I'm thinking, 'Wow, if I had to take a guess, a truck that size probably is big enough and powerful enough to push a large armored car.'"

"Did Martha have a personal life of any sort?" Adrian asked.

"I think she was dating someone," Parker replied.

"Who?" I asked.

"I don't know who," Parker said, "I think he was black, maybe in his thirties, he showed up about a week or so ago."

That description sounded vaguely like one of the people Danielle had photographed meeting with O'Donnell at that restaurant.  
"Could he have looked like this?" Adrian asked. Natalie pulled the Bobby Murdoch file from her purse.

"Yeah, that looks like him," Parker replied, "That's the reporter who came by last week claiming to be doing a piece about the life of a typical sanitation worker."

"Sounds more to me like a ruse to seduce a driver and get her to help him with his employer's plans," Adrian said.

We didn't get much out of Chad Parker. Aside from the knowledge that Bobby Murdoch had seduced her to acquire a garbage truck driver for the robbery, we didn't have much more to work with.

"I think we need to go to Martha's apartment," Adrian said, "There must be evidence there to link her to the heist."

* * *

San Francisco is a city that has had a boom in warehouse-to-loft apartment conversions in the past five or six years. If there's one thing the city has no shortage of, it's abandoned and decrepit industrial spaces, which are also great places to covertly meet to discuss organized crime and commit murder in. Now, I don't understand the appeal of living in an old factory in a decaying neighborhood, but there must be people willing to spend millions for the privilege of doing so.

Martha Jansen lived in a very recent warehouse-to-loft conversion on the east side of the Mission District. There was a billboard on the side of the building that had an artist's rendering of the lofts available for immediate occupancy. I'm not sure what the allure is of living in a place that's gorgeous on the inside and ugly on the outside, but I'm not a sophisticate and just a detective's wife. We were quick to find a staircase up to the second floor, where Martha's loft was located.

"There are four units here, three of which are unoccupied and awaiting buyers," the landlord said as he showed us up the stairs.

"So, no one would have heard anything if something here?" Natalie asked.

"You could have brought a zoo of animals here and no one would notice, ma'am," the landlord said.

"Miss Jansen was your sole tenant, I gather?" Adrian asked.

"Yes, sir, that's correct," the landlord said. He was now fidgeting with the keys looking for the one that unlocked the door to Martha's apartment.

"What was she like?" I asked.

"Quiet, not very sociable," he answered. "Kept to herself, really."

"So you wouldn't know why someone would have an alligator maul her to death?" Adrian asked.

"No," the landlord said. He unlocked the door and handed the key to Natalie. "Here's the key. Just make sure you lock up when you leave."

"We will," Natalie said. The landlord disappeared back down the stairs.

"Natalie, I think you should call the cops," Adrian said.

"Why?" she asked.

"I can't be sure that this isn't a trap set up by Douglas O'Donnell to have us killed," Adrian said.

"OK, what do you want me to tell them?" she asked.

"Tell them to get some unmarked units stationed outside the building," Adrian told her.

"All right, that's a good excuse," Natalie said. She flipped open her phone and dialed a number.

"Hey, Commander Jeltz," she said, "It's Natalie Teeger. Listen, Mr. Monk is wondering if you could get your stakeout team positioned outside 23rd and Harrison?" She listened for a moment. "No, send the LPH truck. Thanks."

She hung up. "They'll be here in five minutes."

* * *

The fire door opened into a vast living room of chrome and glass and marble, which made a striking contrast to the exposed beams and rough bricks of the original structure. The entire space was bathed in sunlight from the curtainless windows on one wall and the skylights above. The rooms themselves were essentially cubicles, separated by rolling stainless-steel and frosted glass partitions, making it possible to reconfigure the living space in a number of different ways. A large rolling bookcase full of hardcovers was present that also acted as a room divider. The only permanently located rooms appeared to be the kitchen and the bathroom, but even they had moveable walls, too.

"How does a lowly garbage truck driver afford such a place?" I asked.

"She probably doesn't," Adrian said, "Unless she's somehow got _Friends_ rent control."

He sniffed the air. "It smells like someone's been using gasoline here."

Natalie and I sniffed.

"What kind?" Natalie asked. "Premium, or unleaded?"

"I wouldn't know," Adrian said. He drifted over to the kitchen counter. There was an open pizza box on the counter, containing a dry, fungus-covered pizza with some slices missing from it.

"This pizza comes from Sorrento's on 24th Street," Adrian said.

"How do you know that, Adrian?" Natalie asked.

"The receipt taped to the box here," Adrian said, pointing, "One large pepperoni purchased at approximately 7:49 p.m. last night. Looks like there's at least three or four slices missing from this pie. I'm betting the coroner will find the missing slices when he checks her stomach contents."

"Do you think that might be useful in some form?" Natalie asked.

"Probably not," he answered, "But I have a feeling that whatever happened to Martha started here."

"If she was killed here, where would she be drowned?" I asked.

That came off as a stupid question the moment Adrian replied, "The bathroom."

* * *

We worked our way around one of the partitions to find the bathroom. In the bathroom was a Jacuzzi on a platform tiled in travertine. Adrian held up his hands as he took a look at the tub.

"Hmmm," Adrian said, "I think there's some dried blood in the grout here." He continued searching. He kneeled down to take a look at the bath drain. "Well, this settles it, ladies, I think we've found the spot where Martha was fed to the gator."

"You sure?" I asked.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "There's a ring of salt around the drain. Looks to me like the kind of sea salt available at most grocery stores."

"So, this is the feeding place where Jansen was killed," Natalie said, "I think I'm seeing a picture in my mind of what happened."

"What do you see?" I asked.

"Actually, it just passed," Natalie said, "If alligators aren't indigenous to San Francisco, what could be used to replicate an alligator bite?"

"You'd need a set of alligator jaws," Adrian said, "Those can be ordered on Amazon for about five bucks. But then you'd need to replicate the bite force, and that's the hardest part."

"Why is it the hardest part?" I asked.

"That's a good question, Kendra," Adrian said, "And here's the answer. An alligator kills its prey by clamping down on it and then rolling over, using its full weight to drag the victim underwater. If there's no evidence of that, it's a dead giveaway. Plus, alligators exert a bite force of two thousand pounds per square inch. I'm not a coroner, but the body showed clear evidence of that, too."

"How do you do that with your bare hands?" Natalie asked. "That's impossible."

"You use some sort of machine," Adrian said, "One capable of replicating the force of an alligator attack without actually needing to train an alligator. One that would be capable of leaving those marks there."

"What marks?" Natalie asked.

"These marks," Adrian said. He crouched beside a pair of black smudges on the tile floor in the middle of the bathroom. I looked at them, then I noticed another pair near the tub itself.

"There's another set near the tub," I said.

"Those look like scuff marks," Natalie said, "Maybe from a set of shoes."

"No, they're side by side," Adrian said, "They're not from a set of shoes."

Then he caught a glimpse of something else on the floor.

"What's this?" he asked. I leaned down to take a look. It was some sort of black liquid.

"Looks like motor oil," I said, "Whatever the tool is, it uses gasoline."

"Must be the source of that gasoline smell," Adrian said.

Adrian suddenly stopped, and sniffed the air.

"Either of you ladies smell something?" he said.

Natalie sniffed. "Yeah, it smells like, aftershave. And it's not you, because it's not your brand."

"Someone's here," Adrian said.

* * *

We stepped out from behind the partition into the main living room. Entering the room was a group of five men, two of whom were carrying gasoline cans. The other three were carrying pistols.

"Let me guess, you've come to kill us destroy any evidence of the murder that was committed here," Adrian said.

The three men carrying pistols advanced on us. The two men with gas cans closed the apartment door and locked it, securing both the deadbolt and the chain.

"Wait, hold on, do you mind?" Natalie asked. Natalie reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone.

The henchmen were staring at us. They were clearly thinking, _what in the world is she doing?_

"Yeah, Los Pollos?" she asked. "Hi, I'm requesting takeout. Five-piece. Extra spicy. Address is 23rd and Harrison."

Then she hung up and smiled.

"You know, guys, if you're gonna kill three of San Francisco's cops," she said, "You should make sure they haven't called a stakeout team first."

"Huh?" one of the henchmen asked.

Adrian grabbed henchman #3's gun hand, and twisted the gun out of his hand, then punched him in the face and slammed his head into the side of the table, shattering it. The man then rolled onto the ground, unconscious.

Natalie and I took on the other two thugs. I kicked henchman #1 in the leg. He doubled over, then punched me in the stomach. I stumbled back into the couch, reeling, and as he prepared to swing a knife at my head, I grabbed his hand and twisted it. He reeled in pain, and I then preceded to raise my left leg and spin-kicked him, hitting him in the neck. He wrestled with me as he fell to the ground, his arms around mine and mines around his. I got my knife out of my pocket and stabbed him in the neck.

Simultaneously, Natalie took on henchman #2, who started by throwing a punch at her chin. As he did so, she kneed him in the groin. She then grabbed the remains of a portable radio alarm clock sitting on the kitchen counter and struck him over the head with it. As he fell to the ground, she punched him in the stomach. He rose up and grabbed her by the chest from behind with his arms. She responded by spin-kicking him, followed by a karate chop to the head. This proved to be that henchman's downfall, as he collapsed to the ground, dead.

That was when someone began pounding on the front door, as if someone was trying to force it open. I had to assume it was the cops who we'd just summoned. The two henchmen standing by the door immediately drew their pistols, prepared to fire on whoever came in threw the door.

Still wrestling with henchman #2, I drew my pistol, and struck him with the back of the handle. Adrian grabbed henchman #2 by his right arm, trying to get him off me. It worked. Adrian pulled him aside and delivered him an intense beatdown.

As #4 and #5 approached, I aimed at #4 and shot him in the heart. Natalie then pulled her pistol and shot #5. At that same moment, #3 stood up, having apparently not been taken out permanently.

"I'll take him," I said. I responded by giving the man a spin kick, striking him right below the chin. I then drove my fist deep into the first attacker's gut, doubling him over again. Then I rammed my elbow down on the back of his neck. And lastly, I kicked him in the head while he was on the ground, to dislocate his jaw.

A moment later, the stakeout cops managed to break down the door.

"Don't shoot! It's over!" Adrian said. The cops quickly lowered their guns and a few of them immediately began moving from body to body, checking for pulses. That itself was a futile process, because all five of the attackers were dead.

I turned to Adrian and smiled. Like after most fights, fighting got me sexually aroused.

"I think we just a message to Douglas O'Donnell here, Adrian," I said.

"What kinda message, Kendra?" Adrian asked.

I leaned in closer to him. "That we will not stand to be trifled with," I whispered into his mouth, simultaneously putting a hand on his face.

"Kendra," Adrian said. I cut off whatever he had to say by kissing him on the mouth. He seemed surprised that I wanted to make out with him, but he was kind enough to kiss me back.

"Gosh, is this being naughty or what?" I whispered to Adrian.

* * *

Within minutes, a forensics team had arrived to process the crime scene. Adrian, Natalie and I were looking at the corpses of the men we'd just killed as forensics photographed them and also dusted the bathroom for evidence pertaining to Martha Jansen's death.

"At least the fact Douglas O'Donnell is already trying to kill us means we're getting to him," Natalie said.

"Exactly, Natalie," Adrian said, "Of course, still, there's the matter of actually placing him at the scene of one of these crimes. We don't have anything to securely place the man in that alleyway, at the armored car warehouse, at Melissa Carney's house, David Ellison's apartment, Baker Beach, here."

"How are we going to prove that, then?" she asked.

"We're going to have to meet with him sometime soon," Adrian said.

Jasmine, one of the forensics techs, came over to us.

"Hey, Jasmine, anything on the bathtub?" Adrian asked.

"We found some blood in the grout, it's probably from your victim," she replied. "We're going to spray the tub down with luminol just to be sure."

Luminol is a chemical forensic teams use that reacts to the hemoglobin in blood and makes it luminescent in dimly lit environments. It sticks to surfaces even after all visible blood traces have been washed away.

"No usable fingerprints that you can find?" I asked.

"We're working on that," Jasmine said. "There's a lot of prints around that tub. It'll probably take a couple days to identify them all."

"Nothing on the dead guys here?" Adrian asked, pointing to the bodies of the O'Donnell henchmen that we'd killed.

"We're taking elimination prints from them as well," Jasmine said.

"Thanks," Adrian said. Jasmine returned to the bathroom. He sighed. "Ladies, I have to say that this case is getting worse and worse by the minute. Bodies are piling up and we don't have anyone or anything who can physically place Douglas O'Donnell at one of these crime scenes or implicate him in a crime."

"Yeah, even Danielle's surveillance is turning up nothing," I said.

"Something will turn up," Natalie said, "It has to turn up."

That was when her phone rang.

"It's your dad, Kendra," she said. She answered it. "Yes, Lieutenant?" she asked.

"Hi, Natalie, I hope I'm not interrupting your investigation," my dad replied.

"Any leads from Baker Beach or the morgue?" Natalie asked.

"No, but there's a suspicious death here in the Sunset District," my dad said. "Could I get your opinion?"

"Uh, sure," Natalie said, "What's the address?"


	17. Barbecue Blast

This newest crime scene was located in the Sunset District on 26th Avenue between Kirkham Street and Lawton Street. On this particular block, all of the houses were packed so tightly together that they practically were sharing walls, with tiny patches of grass out front to pass for "lawns" barely larger than my bathtub.

The house we were headed for was easy to spot because there were police units, a coroner's van, as well as the engine units for Engine Company 18 and Truck Company 18 from the fire department parked out front. Otherwise, the house looked like every other house on its block, other than the one immediately north of it. While similar in design to the others, it looked like it took up two lots instead of one.

I was one who sometimes preferred to see consistency in architecture. Breaks in consistency, at least ones like this, tended to annoy me.

"You look like that house is glaring at you, Kendra," Natalie said as we emerged from the car.

"Yeah I know," I said, "Is that even complying with city building codes?"

"I presume it is," Adrian said, "Or else it wouldn't be there. Kendra, we've got this here." He pointed to the house surrounded by the crime scene tape.

We headed into the house, where we were greeted by Inspector Michael McKiernan.

"Mr. Monk, I wasn't expecting to see you here," McKiernan said.

"The lieutenant sent us," Adrian said, "What have you got?"

"A close case. All that's left is writing up a report. I don't think there's anything for you to see here."

But Adrian, Natalie and I were already in the living room, which appeared to double as an office. It was dominated by a desk covered in Excel spreadsheets, calculators, and tissue boxes.

The walls were adorned with dozens of pictures of a rotund, gregarious guy at various barbecue cookouts or festivals. In almost all of the photos, he was wearing an apron and a chef's hat, and standing beside a grill or platter of barbecued meet, with a smile on his face. He also had some trophies and ribbons from barbecue competitions in a trophy case.

"This guy as a big barbecue nut," I said.

"And probably a sick one, too," Adrian said.

"How do you know?" Natalie asked.

"Look at that wastebasket," Adrian said, pointing to one that was overflowing, "It's overflowing with discarded tissues. Natalie, Kendra, you've gotten sinus infections in the past and if I remember, right, on the occasions you got them, you burned through them faster than most people consume a tube of Pringles."

I distinctly remembered the cold I'd had the previous March. I remembered having to carry wads of tissues in my late friend's tour jacket.

"Actually, that's just allergies," McKiernan said, coming in.

"Come again, McKiernan?" I asked.

"The dead guy here, Tom Feldman, had terrible seasonal allergies. Nothing contagious. But they're what killed him."

"That doesn't make sense," Adrian said.

"Let me explain," McKiernan said.

"But the lieutenant said the guy here either drowned or burned to death," Natalie said.

"He did," McKiernan replied.

Adrian grimaced and rolled his shoulders.

"McKiernan, what are you implying here?" Adrian asked. "How did the allergies kill him if he burned to death or drowned?"

"Follow me," McKiernan said. We followed him down the hall to the kitchen as he continued talking. "Feldman here was single, lived alone, and operated an accounting practice out of his house here. He's been suffering sinus problems for the last couple of weeks and none of the medications that he'd been taking seemed to be doing anything to clear his congestion."

"I know the feeling," I said, "I had a nasty sinus infection last spring that wouldn't clear up no matter how many nasal rinses or drugs I took."

"How do you know so much about his allergies?" Natalie asked.

"His next door neighbor is also his pharmacist," McKiernan replied.

"Which neighbor?" Adrian asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Which next-door house does he live in, this doctor? The big house or the little house?"

McKiernan gestured out to the big house that visible outside the window over the kitchen sink.

"The big house," Adrian said, "I think we should talk to him."

"There's no reason to," McKiernan said, "I've already spoken to him."

"OK," Adrian said. His gaze fell on a row of prescription bottles lined up on the windowsill. He picked one up and read the label.

"Clancy Drugs," Adrian said, "Clancy's the neighbor?"

"Yes, Eugene Clancy. Why?" McKiernan asked.

"Just asking," Adrian said, "Go on."

"Feldman is a barbecue nut. You did just see his study. He doesn't eat anything that hasn't been grilled," McKiernan read from his notes, "So about an hour ago, he went outside to make himself a slab of baby-back ribs that he'd been marinating in dry rub."

He gesture to a platter of uncooked ribs on the counter. Natalie leaned down and sniffed them.

"Adrian, Kendra, these smell amazing," she said, "I think we should take it home for ourselves."

"You want to take raw meat that's potentially forensic evidence from a crime scene?" Adrian asked.

"It just seems like a waste of perfectly good meat," Natalie said, "I mean, that guy's won God knows how many rewards for his meats. This guy should probably be running his own restaurant, not an accounting practice."

"I couldn't agree more," I said, "I'd eat them myself, if only they had bacon."

"Everything you eat has to have bacon in some form, Kendra," Adrian said, "You were saying, McKiernan?"

"Feldman took this meat out of the fridge to let it get warmed up to room temperature. Then he went outside to light the grill," he said, gesturing to the sliding glass doors that opened to the backyard.

The window panes in the doors had been blown out by the blast, spraying the kitchen table with shattered glass. The patio was covered with rubble and debris that remained from the counter that had contained the barbecue, which now looked like an enormous crumpled beer can that had been struck by a BART train.

"He opened the grill, he pushed the ignition to light it," McKiernan said, "And it blew up in his face." Adrian, Natalie and I carefully stepped around the bits of metal, cinder block, and ceramic tile as we followed McKiernan over to the hot tub a few feet away. "He either jumped into the hot tub trying to put the fire out or the blast was strong enough to throw him into it. The coroner's not sure yet whether the blast killed him or he drowned, not that it really matters."

"It does matter," Adrian said. The body was gone, but the water was still discolored a dark black from the charred clothing and flesh that had been residing in it.

I frowned. "So it was a gas leak."

McKiernan nodded. "Yes, Miss Davenport. It probably was."

"And this poor lad didn't smell the gas because his sinuses were all clogged up," I continued.

"A freak accident," McKiernan said.

"So, his allergies did kill him after all," Natalie said, "Nice work, McKiernan."

Adrian turned around and went back into the kitchen.

"Adrian?" Natalie asked.

Natalie and I followed Adrian back to the kitchen sink. He picked up and examined each pill bottle on the windowsill.

"What's wrong, Adrian?" Natalie asked.

"I feel like something's wrong about this accidental barbecue blast," Adrian said. "Ladies, I'm going to try something drastic." He twisted open one bottle of pills, took a hand full, and promptly put them into his mouth.

"What are you doing, Adrian?" I asked, a bit concerned for my husband.

"Kendra, you know what I'm doing," Adrian said, swallowing another handful, "I'm trying to see if these pills do anything."

"You aren't trying to overdose, are you, boss?" Natalie asked.

"Natalie, I'm not a suicidal man, I love you two," Adrian said, swallowing the second bunch of pills, "Besides, I couldn't overdose on these medications even if I wanted to."

I picked up the bottle Adrian had just taken pills from. "But this is prescription strength Cemedrin. It says so on the label."

"Kendra, it's not Cemedrin, it's a placebo. All of these medications are," Adrian said, tipping his head towards the other bottles.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"They're harmless combinations of a bunch of the things you see in most processed foods like candy: xantham gum, celulose, sugar, why, lactose, cornstarch, and yeast coated in shellac, which is what keeps them from dissolving and prevents people from tasting or smelling the ingredients."

"How do you know these pills are phonies?" Natalie asked.

"There are very distinct differences in the shape and density between placebos and real drugs," Adrian said. By this point, McKiernan had reentered the house and seen the drama going on between Adrian, Natalie and me.

"Ah, McKiernan," Adrian said, "Go arrest Eugene Clancy."

"The pharmacist who lives next door?" McKiernan asked. "The only thing he's probably guilty of is violation of building codes with that house."

"You agree with me that house doesn't fit?" I asked.

"We called the city engineer's office right before you got here," McKiernan replied, "He's probably going to be getting a substantial fine."

"Well arrest him for murder, as well," Adrian said.

"You think Mr. Clancy killed Mr. Feldman?" McKiernan asked. "You did hear my rundown of the case?"

"I did, and this is proof of it," Adrian said, gesturing to the pills, "Look at the labels. These medications were prescribed by three completely different doctors. But they all have one thing in common: they were all filled at Clancy Drugs. So here's what just really happened here: Eugene Clancy wanted to expand that grotesque house of his even more, but his neighbor here refused to sell. When Tom Feldman began to have allergy troubles, Clancy saw his chance. He filled Feldman's prescriptions with placebos instead of actual medications, knowing full well that Feldman's condition wouldn't get any better, but rather, would get worse, and he wouldn't smell a thing. Clancy also knew that Feldman was a barbecue fanatic who grilled everything he ate. So he sabotaged the gas, then just sat back, relaxed, and waited until…"

"Boom," I said.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," McKiernan said, "Aside from a woman being mauled to death by an alligator on a beach in California."

"Martha Jansen was actually killed in her apartment," Adrian said, "With some sort of tool that replicated the injuries of an alligator attack. We actually just came from there."

"Back on this, what more have you got than your theory here?" McKiernan asked.

Natalie and I grinned at him. "Adrian, of course," I said.

McKiernan looked at Adrian. "What about him?"

"I'm alive and well here, McKiernan, and if those were real pills, I'd be on the floor having seizures," Adrian said, "I took a bunch of those pills to prove a point."

I could tell that McKiernan was frustrated, and somewhat pissed, but he couldn't deny the obvious: Adrian was perfectly healthy.

"Even assuming you're right about the placebos, how does that prove that Clancy is the killer?" he asked. "Anybody could have switched those pills out for fakes."

"Tom Feldman lived alone," Adrian replied, "So Clancy was the only one who had access to all of the drugs from the three different doctors, and who could make _absolutely_ sure that Feldman only got placebos."

"Where's Clancy now?" I asked.

McKiernan tipped his head towards the window and Clancy's house. "Next door."

"Book him," Natalie said.

"And tell him that this is what happens when Adrian Monk comes wandering around his neighborhood and spots inconsistencies," I said, "Oh, and that next time, he should use more realistic-looking placebos."

McKiernan gave Adrian and me a look and quickly left the house without another word.

"He seemed a bit tense," Natalie said.

"He probably was pulled from the investigation into the murders we think are tied to Douglas O'Donnell," Adrian said. "Speaking of which, I think we ought to either check to see if there are any leads pertaining to any of the suspected O'Donnell gang members."

"Sounds like a good idea," I said.

* * *

We headed back to our penthouse for the afternoon and evening. Any further leads on O'Donnell would have to wait until the next day, or at least until Danielle Hossack or the police were able to conjure up some leads pertaining to O'Donnell or any of the identified individuals from hers and David Ellison's pictures.

"I don't know if that background on Douglas O'Donnell might mean something or not," I said to Adrian and Natalie over dinner.

"What are you saying, Kendra?" Adrian asked.

"I'm just saying, his father was a terrorist in Northern Ireland," I said, "Could Douglas O'Donnell be more like a terrorist than an armed robber?"

"I think he's more like a gangster, actually," Adrian said, "Over-the-top shooting yesterday with the McClellan attack, his executions of the armored car guards and the accomplices from North Beach, his torching of the van, him staging Martha Jansen to look like she was mauled by an alligator. I mean, those are the kinds of murders I can imagine a mob boss ordering to send a message."

"What kind of message would that be?" Natalie asked.

"I don't know," Adrian said. "What we need to do is show that we won't be intimidated into backing down."

* * *

 **Saturday, August 6, 2016** :

The sun rose on a bright sunny day for San Francisco. The morning newscasts were leading with stories about both the murder of Martha Jansen and the brawl we'd had with O'Donnell's henchmen in Martha's apartment. Captain Stottlemeyer, once again, had been very careful at filtering all known facts about the case before they went to the news outlets. For instance, the media didn't know the cause of Martha Jansen's death. All that they knew was that a person of interest in Thursday's armored car robbery had been found dead at Baker Beach under suspicious circumstances, and they also knew her name. They also didn't know anything about the fight at Martha's apartment other than that the individuals responsible were believed to have been gangbangers.

After the news stories about the murders had gone away, the morning newscasts changed to the other big story going on in the city: President Underwood was arriving today and was going to be spending the week campaigning in the Bay Area. Hearing that, I had to think, 'this is going to be a really good opportunity for O'Donnell to commit another big heist, because the number of TV reporters in the area is going to be through the roof.'

When Natalie and I walked into the living room that morning, we found several case file folders on the coffee table.

"What are these?" Natalie asked.

"It's the official police case files," Adrian said, "One's for the armored car robbery, one's Melissa Carney, another's the McClellan ambush, and there's also one for Martha Jansen."

"Must be a lot of information," I said.

"Yeah, I've been up for about an hour looking through this," Adrian said. Natalie and I looked through some of the file folders. Each file folder was filled with information: photos of the victims, witness statements, the coroners' reports on each death, lists of suspects and background information about them, etc. As far as we could tell, Melissa Carney's background was very clean and there was no evidence of any ties to Douglas O'Donnell or any people with known criminal records. The background files on Edward O'Brien, Bobby Murdoch and Dennis Donoghue weren't that helpful either, although the files on Murdoch and Donoghue suggested that they may have had financial difficulties.

"Sir, I was wondering," Natalie said, "Maybe we need to stake out Douglas O'Donnell's house?"

"You know, Natalie, I think that's a good idea," Adrian said. "Call Danielle Hossack. Tell her to meet us down on the street right away. And tell her bring her own car."

"Why?" she asked.

"You heard Danielle on Thursday," Adrian said, "The Intertect company cars have tracking chips. He's obsessed with keeping track of his operatives."

"And their cars are probably bugged with listening devices," I said.

"So, let's recap: we're going to Douglas O'Donnell's house, and we're going to put him under around-the-clock surveillance," Adrian said, "And we aren't going to let him out of our sight."

"Until how long?" I asked.

"Until we can get him to slip up," Adrian said.

Natalie opened her cell phone and called Danielle's cell phone. "Danielle? It's Natalie Teeger. Listen, can you meet me, Adrian, and Kendra in the parking garage at 999 Green Street?" She listened. "Bring a car not leased to you by O'Donnell's company. We'll explain what's going on when you get here."


	18. A Double Shot at the Pub

We took our private elevator down to the building's parking garage. Danielle showed up in a 2008 model Toyota Prius about fifteen minutes later.

"Hi," Danielle said.

"Morning, Danielle," Adrian said, "I hope we didn't interrupt your Saturday plans."

"I didn't have any," she said, "Aside from missing out on my sister's funeral service."

"Oh that's today?" I asked. "We're sorry."

"Ah, well, I hate funerals," Danielle said, "My parents are there, though. I just told them I had work to do. So what are we doing?"

"We're going to stake out Douglas O'Donnell's house," Adrian said, "We would like your assistance."

"Is this pertaining to the armored car robbery or any of those other crimes?" Danielle asked.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "It is. We're thinking that if we can follow O'Donnell, we'll eventually get him to trip up and he will lead us to something or someone who can give us evidence to secure an arrest."

"Sure thing," Danielle said. "He lives over in Sea Cliff, that's all the way over on the west side of town."

* * *

Sea Cliff is the part of town I like to describe as being the place where rich people who can't find space in Pacific Heights set up shop. It's got great views of the ocean, the beach where we'd found Martha Jansen's body the day before, and the Marin County headlands.

Douglas O'Donnell's house was located at 247 Sea Cliff Avenue. He had a huge stately house surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence with security cameras that were discreetly placed in key positions around the perimeter. The trees were shaped to look like enormous bowling balls. There was a polished cobblestone driveway that curved past the front door and went around the house to a garage on the west side. From the driveway configuration, it looked like there was a provision so that O'Donnell could be dropped off by a chauffeur who could then park the car in the garage.

Our timing was good. When we showed up, I could see a black Mercedes C-Class sedan parked outside the front door. Adrian, Natalie and I parked on the north side of the street, in front of O'Donnell's house, while Danielle parked her Prius on the opposite side of the street.

"That's O'Donnell's car, isn't it?" I asked, pointing to the car parked in the driveway.

"Yeah, I believe it is," Natalie said. "So what do we do now?"

"We wait until he leaves and then we follow him," Adrian said, "Simple as that."

"What are we supposed to do while we wait?" I asked.

"I have an idea," Adrian said. He got out of the passenger seat and moved to the backseat, taking a seat next to me. I smiled at him

"Let me guess: you want to make out with me, Adrian," I said.

"Why not? It's a very useful distraction technique," Adrian said.

"I'm not sure about this," I said, "What if a private security patrol comes driving by? We'll be busted."

"Look, it's a proven study that generally, people will try to steer clear or ignore people who look like they're being intimate," Adrian said.

"Adrian, please," I said, "This isn't going to work."

* * *

 _Ten Minutes Later..._

"What did I tell you, Kendra? It works."

Adrian, Natalie and I were still sitting in our car outside O'Donnell's house. My lower lip felt like it had nibbled on by one very hungry rat, and I was sweating profusely. Indeed, Adrian making out with me did work. At least one security patrol did go by, and while they did slow as they passed our car and Danielle's, their drivers didn't get out or approach us. And I for one enjoyed it.

"OK, Adrian, you win, it works," I said. "Although this is still hardly how I imagine professional cops would behave."

"Kendra, we're still more professional than most cops on TV," Adrian said, "I mean, we're so much competent than the police in _Dexter_."

"Oh, geez, that show," Natalie said from the front seat, "I can't believe how incompetent that show makes the Miami Metro Police look."

"Exactly, Natalie," Adrian said, "Compare our Robbery-Homicide force with the cops in that show. Kendra, your dad runs the division like a well-oiled machine. It's considered the best homicide investigation unit in the country because it's run with high performance standards and some of the brightest people in the department, people who are able to put aside their personal issues, to buckle down and catch the bad guys. Miami's police? Pfff, those guys act more like immature junior high school students than they do police officers."

"I have to admit, before _Dexter,_ I never saw a police force or even an investigative division of a police force where people were stabbing each other in the back, metaphorically speaking of course, over promotions and very obsessive personal relationships," I said.

"I've been working with the SFPD for as long as you've been alive, Kendra," Adrian said, "And not once have I seen such things as a cop blackmailing their superior for a promotion, so as to force that superior to retire, nor have I seen obsessions or vendettas over certain criminals, and I certainly haven't seen workplace love triangles."

"Don't we technically constitute a love triangle, Adrian?" Natalie asked. "I mean, yes, you and Kendra tied the knot, but you harbored some romantic feelings for me when you first hired me."

"No, Natalie, we don't," Adrian said. Natalie gave him a look. "OK, you're right. Maybe we are a love triangle. But still, the three of us in this car operate a professional one man-two women team that has taken down some of the worst criminals to terrorize this city: Douglas Thurman, Stewart Babcock, the Six-Way Killer, and right now, Douglas O'Donnell and his massive army of droogs."

"There's also the entire thing about how frequent a job position changes on that show," I said.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "The position of Lieutenant of Homicide in Miami basically passed between three different detectives in a span of eight years. Both of the lieutenants in our Robbery-Homicide Division, your dad and Disher, that is, they've held their positions for at least ten years each."

"And while the cops are throwing their little 'tantrums,' their city is being terrorized by countless serial killers," Natalie said.

"Yeah," Adrian chuckled bitterly, "And every time I've ever watched _Dexter_ , I always had to ask, why in the world doesn't the FBI allocate a permanent presence in the Miami-Dade County metropolitan area? Considering how the show makes Miami look like it's a city where senior citizens are being stalked by final boss-type killers like Dexter Morgan himself, I would think the McCain and Walker administrations would be pouring millions of dollars in funding to maintain a presence in that city just to crack down on the serial killers."

"Maybe their chamber of commerce needs to lock its doors permanently," Natalie said.

"I don't think so," I said, "And, Adrian, Natalie, I don't know about you but it's like it's the incompetence of the police that allows Dexter Morgan to even carry out his homicidal urges."

"Exactly, Kendra," Adrian said, "Dexter's a guy who commits so many mistakes that if we operated in Miami, we would have caught him before the end of the first season."

"I never really thought of that," Natalie said.

"Well for starters, he's accessing the FBI databases to do cross-examinations on his future kills," Adrian said, "Which is odd considering that he's not a cop but a blood analyst with a tech lab that is contracted by the police, but that's not the point. The point is, he downloads protected information from FBI and local police databases that is really not that well encrypted. Plus, you remember that killer who was played by John Lithgow?"

"The Trinity Killer," Natalie said.

"Arthur Mitchell," I said, simultaneously.

"Good," Adrian said, "Dex calls him several times from his cell phone before he kills him. Now, ladies, let me remind you of what we in the SFPD do when someone goes missing: we go through the records for their house phone, their cell phone, their work phone, pretty much any phone with a number that's registered to them, and we talk to pretty much every individual he or she called or received calls from for the past eighteen months. Miami's police apparently don't do that, even if the missing person is the primary suspect in a string of brutal homicides."

"We also do generally look for forensic evidence in a missing person's house, or car, or office, Adrian," Natalie said.

"Thanks for that reminder, Natalie," Adrian said, "Speaking of forensic evidence, if Dexter operated in San Francisco, we'd have like, an orgy of evidence to convict him of murder. Look, if he were killing his victims by offing them with a method that the police could reasonably dismiss as an accident, like hiding behind a construction barrier on a metro platform and shoving his victim in front of a train, which would look like he accidentally tripped or jumped, I'd have no problem. But he instead prepares a 'murder room,' if you can call it that, full of artifacts from the killer's victim's, and he coats every single surface in the room with plastic, plus he injects some kind of sedative to overpower his victim enough to strap him down."

"But the plastic is supposed to keep DNA evidence or trace evidence from appearing at the house," Natalie said.

"True, but think of how much plastic the guy has to be purchasing. To cover an entire room in plastic, he has to be purchasing hundreds of yards of material, just for each kill," Adrian said, "Which means, somewhere in Miami, there's a hardware store clerk who just asks no questions whatsoever about this guy who stops by his store every week and buys a bunch of spools of plastic, aprons, face guards, and gloves. Not to mention that there must be records of unusual purchases of those sedatives from a medical supply store."

"I keep thinking that Dexter's bank must be blind or incompetent," I said, "Unless he's paying those cash, all of those purchases would probably appear on his credit card statements, and I think his sister would be asking a lot of questions."

"And where's he storing this stuff when he isn't using it?" Adrian asked. "Is he storing it at a storage locker? Even if he were doing that under an assumed name, he would be doing it with enough regularity that someone or multiple people would have to have seen him."

"Perhaps he bribes some people," Natalie said.

"Maybe," Adrian said, "Certainly not from his bank account if it's an electronic one, since the banks can freeze those. So he must have a lot of loose cash on hand."

* * *

We sat there for about another half hour. As we watched the house, I shifted my thinking to finding ways to pin even one of the murders on O'Donnell. My first thought was that perhaps, based on the pizza box with the partially eaten pizza, that Martha Jansen may have met her killer when she bought the pizza. If Douglas O'Donnell killed her, there might be evidence in the trunk of his car like DNA or blood traces. But then I thought that O'Donnell had to be a smart man. If he used the Mercedes, he'd probably have cleaned the trunk with club soda to erase any blood stains that were there. He could have chosen to be discreet, by taking a company car, but then I thought, the tracking system would probably prove he'd driven from Martha's apartment to Baker Beach. And the record wouldn't prove that he'd necessarily been in the car at the time unless he ran a red light. All it would prove was that an Intertect car stopped by Martha's apartment and then drove from her place to Baker Beach. And that was assuming O'Donnell hadn't erased that car's travel history.

At one point, Natalie called Danielle's car to see what she was doing. She'd brought along a copy of _Death List_ and noshing on Nutri-Grain bars, and, all in all, was enjoying her time on the stakeout.

* * *

We were interrupted around 11:15 when we saw Douglas O'Donnell emerge from the house and climb into his car.

"He's moving," Natalie said. I picked up my cell phone and called Danielle.

"Danielle, we're rolling," I said.

I had to admit that this was exciting. I couldn't remember the last time I'd tailed someone like this. Danielle sounded a bit thrilled, too. We stayed in constant contact via phone so that the three of us and Danielle could take turns driving in front of the other so that O'Donnell wouldn't notice us.

O'Donnell led us out of Sea Cliff. Our two cars followed him south on 26th Avenue. He traveled along this road to as far south as Geary Boulevard. Upon reaching Geary, he turned left and drove east on Geary. We followed him along Geary until he got to Gough Street, just outside St. Mary's Cathedral. Here, he turned back south, headed for the Mission District.

"Don't tell me he's on his way to that Irish pub," I said.

"That's where it looks like he's going," Adrian said.

* * *

Indeed, it was not even five minutes later that we ended up outside McCabe's Irish Pub, located on the northwest corner of 16th Street and Mission Street, and the very restaurant where Danielle and David Ellison had done some surveillance work that Thursday afternoon and evening. The building was directly across the street from the main entrance to the 16th Street BART station. As we pulled up, we saw O'Donnell park his car on the 16th Street side of the restaurant, as close as he possibly could get to the restaurant's entrance on the corner without sticking out into Mission Street. Adrian, Natalie and I looked at each other as we pulled into an empty parking spot about three spaces ahead of O'Donnell's car. Danielle parked her car across the street from ours. We looked in our rearview mirrors and watched as O'Donnell got out of the car and headed into the restaurant.

Natalie turned to Adrian.

"Now what?" she asked.

"We have to go inside and talk to him," Adrian said.

Natalie didn't look like she liked that idea "Shouldn't we call the cops?"

"Why should we?"

"Because this could be dangerous, Adrian," she said, "If something happens a lot of people could be killed."

"Let's just see who O'Donnell is having a meeting with here," Adrian said. "We have the flagpins, Natalie?"

"Yep, we do," Natalie said, reaching into her purse. She produced three little American flagpins. These weren't ordinary flagpins, as they were actually cleverly disguised mini-video cameras. After using them, we could download the feed to a computer at our apartment and analyze it. It was our equivalent to the body cams that were used by the patrol officers. Adrian, Natalie and I attached them to our coattails.

We got out of the car and approached Danielle's car.

"So what do I do?" she asked.

"You have a good vantage point of the restaurant from here," Adrian said, "If there's trouble, call Natalie or Kendra immediately and we will respond accordingly."

"There might be violence?" Danielle asked.

"Let's hope not," Adrian said. He pulled out his primary pistol and checked it. "Natalie? Kendra? Your guns?"

Natalie and I also checked that our primary pistols were also locked and loaded.

"Let's do this," I said.

* * *

We stepped into the pub and tried to locate O'Donnell. It took about five seconds to locate him. We watched as he sat down in one of those corner booths where the bench surrounds three sides of the table. There were two other men sitting at the table, one of whom looked like he was Chinese. The other appeared to be African-American.

"What do we say to him?" Natalie asked.

"Let's pretend to have just accidentally stumbled upon him," Adrian said.

We slowly approached his booth.

"Do they know anything?" the Chinese guy asked.

"I don't think so," O'Donnell said.

"I don't like the fact that you say three detectives on your payroll are investigating you, Doug," the Chinese guy said, "What if they find out about our involvement?"

"If they try to arrest you, fight back," O'Donnell replied, "Try to kill them. Commit suicide-by-cop if that's what it takes."

I instinctively realized that they were talking about us.

"Mr. O'Donnell?" Adrian asked, acting astonished.

O'Donnell pretended to also look surprised to see us.

"I thought that was you," Adrian said. "Never thought you'd be one to frequent a place like this."

"Ah, if it isn't the defective detective and his pretty little minions," O'Donnell said, "What gives, Mr. Monk?"

Just for the record, there is such a thing as taking offense to even the simplest of phrases, and the phrase 'pretty little minions' was one I took as an insult. "Are you insulting us, or are you just 'surprised' to see us?" I asked.

The three of us had slid into the seat across the table from O'Donnell. I was on Adrian's right, and Natalie was on his left, between Adrian and the Caucasian henchman.

"You should learn how to take a compliment better, Miss Davenport," O'Donnell said.

"It's not a compliment," I said, "Coming from a murderer like you, it's called belittlement."

"Hey, I don't belittle women, Miss Davenport," O'Donnell said, "I'm a womanizer."

"What do you three want here?" the Chinese thug asked.

"Mr. Monk, Miss Teeger and Miss Davenport here are new hires of mine," O'Donnell said to them. He turned back to us. "Let me guess what this is about: that journalist Luke Reordan. The cops have been at my office asking me about that twice, even though they don't have any proof that I'm involved."

"No, we're actually here, about something else," Natalie said, "We know you're involved in organized crime, O'Donnell."

"We killed at least three of your own employees two days ago," Adrian said, "And this wasn't pre-meditated. We shot them because they were trying to murder the chairman of El Dorado Trust."

"The cops were asking me about that, too," O'Donnell said, "I told them I had nothing to do with it. Do I look like a murderer to you?"

"Yeah, you kinda do," I said, "We also know that one of your other employees, David Ellison, was killed hours later, when someone threw him off his balcony."

"I was on a jog in my neighborhood when that happened, I told the cops that yesterday," O'Donnell replied.

"Right," Adrian said, "Except, here's the thing: whoever killed Ellison was seen by a video surveillance camera in his lobby. He was wearing a hoodie and standing at an angle that obstructed his face. Ellison lived alone and didn't get many visitors."

"He did," O'Donnell said, "He was a very private person."

"You also wear size 12 shoes," Adrian said, "And don't get me wrong, but I think I see some scratches on your ankle."

"What's your point?"

"I think those scratches are from when your foot went through the seat of that wicker chair on Ellison's balcony," Adrian said.

"This is insane," O'Donnell chuckled, "First you're accusing me of orchestrating a hit on a bank chairman, now you're saying I killed one of my own employees. Make up your mind."

"Both, actually," Adrian said, "O'Donnell, let me ask you, did you switch out your gun recently?"

"What?" O'Donnell asked. His hand reached towards his shoulder holster, easily visible under his jacket.

"That holster is designed for a Glock 17," Adrian said, "I know because according to Danielle Hossack, that's the weapon you normally carry. But that holster doesn't quite fit the gun you're currently holding, a Beretta 92FS. Those use slightly differently designed holsters. I can tell the loose fit is starting to annoy you, from the way you've been unconsciously moving your left arm."

O'Donnell eyed the offending holster. "The way I'm moving my left arm?"

"You hug your left arm a little closer to your side than the other arm," Adrian said, "I've been eying it ever since the three of us sat down. I'm betting it won't take long before you're bothered enough to buy a proper holster. After all, you've only had that new gun for a day or two at most.'

"What are you implying?" O'Donnell snorted.

Adrian continued. "My guess is that you ditched your Glock yesterday, probably dumped it into the ocean, somewhere where we'll never find it, and never be able to do ballistics to connect it to the murders of the three guards from the armored car, Melissa Carney, or your henchmen from your attempted assassination of Paddy McClellan."

It was a great thing we had our little recorders on us.

"So, do you want to admit to these murders, O'Donnell?" I asked. "It would save my dad a lot of trouble."

O'Donnell opened his cell phone and made a call.

"Hey, it's me," O'Donnell said, "Listen, take 'em now. We can't afford any delays."

He hung up and turned to us.

"Sorry, I have to go," O'Donnell said, "I have some business to take care of."

* * *

O'Donnell promptly stood up and headed to the bathroom. As he stood up, I saw an Acura sedan and a Nissan SUV pull to a stop outside the front door. Almost immediately, a group of men climbed out. I felt my hairs stand on end and a twinge between my shoulder blades. Something told me that those men were up to no good, that they probably had sinister intentions. From the looks Adrian and Natalie had, they were trying to pretend not to notice them. Then my glance turned to the waitress walking towards our table. She was reaching into her pocket as if to grab something. My cop instincts told me she probably was drawing a concealed gun. I discreetly unsnapped the holster for the pistol on my belt and drew it.

Adrian, Natalie and I looked at each other, as if to silently acknowledge we were about to be ambushed. I noticed that Adrian had drawn his belt mounted pistol and had it hiding under the table, and Natalie had done the same.

Just then, the waitress got to our table, standing on my side.

"So have you guys decided what you want to order?" she asked.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "This."

The atmosphere of the restaurant turned from serene and peaceful to one of outright terror in split seconds. Adrian and Natalie promptly flipped the table over, and raised their pistols. The two henchmen sitting at this table (who you may have noticed sat in complete silence during this entire previous conversation) had just started to stand up and draw guns from holsters on their belts, but Adrian and Natalie fired first. Two bullets struck each man, and both fell, dead. And while that happened, the waitress began to draw a pistol. I already had had mine drawn before she could even get a proper grip on it, and I promptly turned and fired straight at her heart. She too fell, also dead as a doornail.

Immediately, the scene erupted in chaos. A few women screamed. Others began running or dove to the ground, trying to hide or protect themselves.

"Get down!" Natalie screamed. That was when the henchmen outside opened fire on the restaurant. Glass windows shattered. Wood splintered. Bullets flew. From the sounds of it, there were at least three or four men out there, and at least two of them were using submachine guns. Adrian, Natalie and I shot back. I fired at least six rounds before I took cover, and Adrian and Natalie probably had fired the same amount.

"How many are there?!" I said over the gunfire.

"At least four!" Adrian replied. Natalie jumped up and fired again. As I got back up for my turn, I saw one henchman run around to the side windows that opened onto the alleyway. I turned and shot in that direction. I continued shooting until my magazine suddenly clicked empty.

"Cover me!" I said.

Natalie had been reloading while I was shooting at the henchman covering the alley. She jumped up and fired two rounds in that direction. Adrian had continued to engage the henchmen out front, and began to reload the moment Natalie finished reloading.

That was when a bullet shattered the partition behind us. Another pistol-wielding henchman was now shooting through the window where I'd shot the first one to try to corner us. I quickly fired a couple rounds in his direction the moment I finished reloading my own pistol. That henchman quickly ducked down.

"Take that guy on the side!" Adrian said to me and Natalie.

"Got it," Natalie said.

We broke cover. Natalie continued to shoot at the guys out front while Adrian and I fired at the henchman by the shattered window. Our first shots hit him somewhere around the chest area, and he fell as Adrian smashed the glass with his shoulder.

"Out this way," Adrian said. He and I jumped through the hole in the window. Natalie continued to trade fire with the gunmen who were on the street for a few more seconds, and then she stepped through the broken window to join us.

"Whew, that was something," I said.

"No time to reminisce," Adrian said. That was when the submachine gun-equipped henchmen, who had been standing on the sidewalk, began firing in our direction.

"Not quite yet!" Natalie said. We scrambled to our feet and opened fire. There was a movable dumpster sitting in the alley, which Natalie immediately begun to push in the direction of the henchmen, while Adrian and Natalie were two steps to her right and one step behind her. I could see there were three men, all standing behind the cars they'd just arrived in. I could also see a bunch of bystanders in the BART station plaza taking cover.

The whole time, Adrian and I were firing with two-handed grip on our pistols. Natalie had one hand on the dumpster and one hand on her pistol. After a few moments, she broke out from behind the dumpster and we resumed firing. Two seconds later, the henchman behind the Acura fell, victim to one of Adrian's bullets. The other two henchmen hopped over the hood of the Acura and begun to shoot. We still had enough bullets left in our current magazines to take both of them down in one short burst.

I couldn't see if one of the dead was O'Donnell, given the distance we were shooting from. But we reloaded our pistols and kept them raised, in case one of the gunmen we'd just shot wasn't entirely dead.

"I think that's the last of them," Adrian said.

That was when we heard more shots. We turned and saw that another henchman inside the restaurant had just burst out the shattered hole in the window we'd burst through moments earlier. He got off three rounds, all of which missed us. Natalie raised her pistol and fired back. This last henchman fell backwards, continuing to fire even as he fell.

"Now I think we've got the last of them," Adrian quipped. The only noise I could hear was the ringing from the shots, and the deep breathing coming from my mouth.

Natalie holstered her pistol, and dialed 911.

"This is Natalie Teeger, I need ambulances at the McCabe's Irish Pub, 16th and Mission, over," she said.

I did a quick scan of the alleyway. Inside the restaurant, bystanders were cautiously beginning to emerge from beneath their tables or their booths. In the plaza, I could see pedestrians also cautiously climbing to their feet, anticipating that the gunfight might not be completed. Now I could hear the cacophony of police, fire, and ambulance sirens approaching, and getting louder by the second.

"Are you okay, Kendra?" Adrian asked.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I scoffed. I took a deep breath and stuck my pistol back into its holster.

"This is not good," Natalie said, looking down at her pistol for a moment before holstering it.

A moment later, the first patrol cars roared to a stop outside the restaurant.

I grabbed my cell phone from my belt and dialed my dad's office phone number.

"Hey, dad, it's Kendra," I said, "Something just happened at McCabe's Irish Pub at 16th and Mission Streets."


	19. Interviews and Target Practice

I didn't think about the shootout we'd just had with henchmen of Douglas O'Donnell's. I was thinking about something else completely: getting revenge. Cold-blooded revenge, that is. A bank chairman getting shot at was one thing. Us being ambushed in a restaurant? Well, that was another thing completely. I was angry. Angry at O'Donnell. Angry that I'd been shot at. And most of all, angry that O'Donnell had gotten away. I couldn't help but notice that O'Donnell's car had vanished by the time we'd gotten out of the alleyway. But I was very good at putting on a somewhat artificial smile to hide my anger.

"Kendra, you look a little red in the face," Natalie said.

* * *

The entire 16th Street Plaza was closed off. The street was clogged with patrol cars, ambulances, a fire engine, and the forensics unit. I could see bystanders on the other side of the crime scene tape recording videos on their phones as injured bystanders were treated by paramedics while the bodies of the various henchmen were being zipped up in body bags and hauled to a waiting coroner's van. Some forensics technicians were dusting and photographing the cars used by the gunmen.

"I hate this," I said, "I never thought that that there would be a criminal I would have so much hatred for."

"Kendra, you're not usually like this after a gunfight," Adrian said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, darling," I said. I forced a small smile. "It's just, I'm just a little overwhelmed, that's all."

"Do you want to head back to the apartment to cool off or….?"

"No, let's stay here," I said, "Now that we know O'Donnell is a ruthless criminal, I'd rather the three of us be on the streets, ready to shoot him like a helpless dog when he's spotted."

"We're not deliberate murderers, Kendra," Adrian replied, "We should probably try to bring him in alive if possible."

"What matters is if any of these witnesses in the restaurant identify O'Donnell from a photograph," Natalie said.

"They probably will," Adrian said, "He's a philanthropist who gives to his community. He's been on TV many times. He's been on Colbert, of all places. The fact that he just tried to have us killed in a public place suggests that he's either desperate or overconfident. I'd like to say it was a bit of both. Either way, it means we now know something more about just what kind of person he is."

"That's for sure," Natalie replied.

* * *

Danielle came over to us. This must have been the first gun battle she'd ever witnessed firsthand and it showed. I could tell from the looks on her face that she had no idea what it was like to be in a shootout, either as a participant or as an innocent bystander just trying not to get shot. I believe she'd been cowering inside her car for the duration of the battle. As she approached us, I saw she was noshing on some Oreos.

"Those guys from the ambulance gave me these," Danielle said, "They said it would help me with the shock."

"I can't blame you," Natalie said.

"Danielle, did you see O'Donnell's car?" I asked.

"Yes, I did," Danielle shifted her feet, "He fled west on 16th Street. I'm pretty sure every single witness in the station plaza will confirm that." She gestured to officers who were interviewing people who had been in the BART station's entrance plaza when the shootout unfolded.

"Do you three have to deal with this every day?" Danielle asked.

"We're professionals, Danielle," Adrian said, "Natalie, Kendra, and I here have gotten out of stickier situations like this, with little more than improvisation and lots of clips for our guns."

Danielle looked around at the carnage.

"Hooh, what a mess, indeed," Danielle replied.

I saw my dad arrive in his unmarked Ford Taurus Police Interceptor and climb out. He acknowledged us with a nod and walked over to the crime scene guys who were looking at the hit men's cars.

"Is that your dad, Miss Davenport?" Danielle asked.

"Yeah, that's him," I said, "I can imagine that he probably isn't happy about what happened."

"Because of the McClellan attack on Thursday?" she asked.

"No, because Douglas O'Donnell's killed witnesses who could talk," I said. "I think some of those guys we shot could have participated in the armored car robbery, or the McClellan attack, or any of the other murders tied to those crimes."

"Speaking of other murders," Danielle said, "I got a look at my sister's laptop this morning. I was looking at it while we were staking out O'Donnell's house."

"Did you learn anything?" Adrian asked.

"Yeah," Danielle said, "Didn't see anything pertaining specifically to O'Donnell or any of the guys associated with him, but I did uncover one strange thing."

"What is that?"

"Over the past week or so before she and Luke were killed, were apparently trading a lot of e-mails with a guy named Paul Braddock."

Adrian stiffened up upon hearing that name.

"Paul Braddock?" Adrian asked. "Ooh, that's interesting."

"That Oakland cop who was involved in that recent line-of-duty shooting?" I asked.

"He's a homicide inspector from our department," Adrian said, "Or rather, he used to be. He transferred across the bay to Oakland's police force about two or three years ago."

"I think I remember him," I said, "I believe he had a record of trampling over peoples' rights to make a case, or the people themselves. And I believe many of these people also sued the city, accusing him of police brutality."

"Yeah, that does sound like a familiar tune," Natalie said.

"I believe, Kendra, that your dad's boss may have contributed to Braddock's departure," Adrian said, "I recall that Captain Stottlemeyer took Braddock aside one day and threatened to toss him over to Internal Affairs if he didn't resign."

"I researched him too," Danielle said, "All of that is true. I actually contacted him and uh, I don't know how to say it properly, but I managed to arrange for you three to meet with him tomorrow."

Natalie stared at Danielle. "You actually did that? Danielle, that's-that's a really good decision. Where and when does Braddock want to meet with us?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, in the lobby of the Westin St. Francis downtown in Union Square, between 1:30 and 2:00," Danielle replied.

"That works for us," Adrian said, "I mean, Kendra's birthday is tomorrow, but we can somehow get that to work."

"Oh, your birthday's tomorrow?" Danielle asked me.

I smiled. "Yeah! I turn 28."

"Good for you," Danielle said.

"Speaking of which, um, Danielle, since our attempt to question O'Donnell here failed, can you tell us if you've talked to any of those other guys who were in those photographs you and Ellison took?"

"As a matter of fact, Edward O'Brien came up in Denise's emails," Danielle said, "No sign of Murdoch or Donoghue, though."

"I think we should talk with him at some point," Adrian said.

* * *

My dad came over to us.

"Monk, Natalie, Kendra," he said. "I heard you guys just got into some excitement here. How are you holding up?"

"We're doing fine, Kendrick," Adrian said. My dad took a glance at Danielle.

"Oh, Kendrick, this is Danielle Hossack, our Intertect liaison," Adrian said, making the introductions, "Danielle, this is Lieutenant Kendrick Davenport, Robbery-Homicide."

"How do you do?" my dad asked, shaking Danielle's hand.

"Kendra says a lot about you," Danielle said.

"Thank you," my dad replied. He sighed. "Listen, you know the drill. I'm going to have to take official statements from you."

"Fine with me," Adrian said. "After what happened yesterday, the four of us – me, Kendra, Danielle, and Natalie here –decided to stake out Douglas O'Donnell's house in Sea Cliff."

"I see," my dad said, "And you followed him here, I gather?"

"That is correct, Dad," I said. "We followed O'Donnell's Mercedes here. Danielle here waited outside while the three of us went inside and approached him."

"Can you describe to me what exactly happened? I can tell your talking with him clearly went sour," my dad said, gesturing to the forensic technicians coming in and out of the restaurant.

"Oh," Natalie said, "We approached Douglas O'Donnell. He had these two other thugs with him. And we accused him of the murders of Melissa Carney, the armored car guards, and those guys who escaped being killed by us during the Paddy McClellan attack on Thursday."

"You accused him of only the shooting murders?" my dad asked. "And not also Denise Hossack, Luke Reordan, David Ellison, or Martha Jansen?"

"We saw some evidence that was suggestive that O'Donnell may have committed those murders," Adrian said, "For instance, it looked like he had bought a new pistol."

"Come again?"

"Douglas O'Donnell's normal firearm is a Glock 17," Adrian continued, "But I couldn't help but notice that his shoulder holster was causing him discomfort. I looked more closely while we were talking and I noticed that this was because he was trying to holster a Beretta 92 pistol in a holster that was built for Glock pistols."

"That's not conclusive proof," my dad said, "I guess, if he had a Glock, he's probably disposed of it, so that we can't seize it and do a ballistics test on it."

"That's what we thought," I said, "And then he used his cell phone to make a phone call. And that was when he got up and went to the bathroom."

"And that was the same time that those two cars there pulled up in front of the restaurant," Adrian said, gesturing to the two cars we'd seen the mercenaries arrive in. "And, I went with my gut and assumed that they were henchmen sent to kill us. From there, I think you can probably reconstruct what happened."

"I can," my dad said, "Where did O'Donnell go?"

"He fled during the gunfight," Danielle said, "I saw him head west on 16th Street. I couldn't see if he made a turn anywhere or not because I was busy hunkering down trying not to get shot."

"I can't blame you," my dad replied.

"What do we know about those cars?" Natalie asked.

"Stolen, bogus plates, too," my dad said. "We're working to track down the original owners."

"Good," Adrian said, "Are there any new developments on the O'Donnell case on your end?"

"Yep," my dad said, "We actually just got the forensics report back on Denise Hossack's murder."

"What did you find?" Danielle asked.

"There were some fingerprints on the door leading out to the back patio," my dad said, "A bunch from you and your sister, Miss Hossack, but most notably, we found a few belonging to one Edward O'Brien."

"He's Intertect's CFO," Danielle said.

"That's the one," my dad said, "I need someone to go question him, preferably today if possible."

"Do you want us to do it?" Adrian asked.

"Sure, why not?" my dad said, "After what just happened here, every detail counts, so…."

* * *

Edward O'Brien's house at 961 Church Street, about a half-block north of 22nd Street, was a normal two story house with blue fretting on it. It looked like it was kept in a state of good repair.

Adrian, Natalie, Danielle, and I pulled up and parked our vehicles in parking spots directly across the street from the house. While Danielle waited outside with the vehicles to watch for trouble, Adrian, Natalie and I walked up to the door and rang the doorbell.

The door was answered by O'Brien himself. He was dressed in an off-the-rack suit and tie, like he was about to leave.

"Hi, I'm Adrian Monk, this is Natalie Teeger and Kendra Davenport," Adrian said, "Are you Edward O'Brien?"

"Yes, I am," O'Brien replied, "May I ask what this is about?"

"Can we come in, please?" Natalie asked.

* * *

"Thank you for letting us see you, Mr. O'Brien," Adrian said. We were sitting on a couch in the O'Brien family's living room.

"It's not a problem," O'Brien said, "I'm always willing to assist one of San Francisco's best homicide detectives."

"Natalie, Kendra, you guys are recording, right?" Adrian asked.

"Yes, Adrian," I said. I checked to see that my little flagpin camera was on.

"We just want to have this conversation recorded so that it's on the record," Adrian said, "Nothing personal. We just want extra security."

"Of course," O'Brien said, "You should always exercise caution."

"Mr. O'Brien, the three of us greatly appreciate that you let us come here today to talk to you," Natalie said, "But, you do have the right to an attorney present for questioning, you know that?"

"Well I can't see why one would be necessary," O'Brien said, reclining in his chair, "But then again, I am curious why you're here."

"So do you want to continue or not?" Natalie asked.

"Please, Miss Teeger, continue. I'm very anxious to find out what this is about."

"Sir, with all due respect, I know this is going to sound a bit hard, but your fingerprints were found at the scene of a very recent crime," Adrian said.

"Really? That's surprising," O'Brien replied.

"A homicide that was disguised as an accidental drowning," Natalie said.

There was a momentary pause.

"Denise Hossack?" O'Brien asked.

Adrian, Natalie and I looked at each other. I could tell from the looks Adrian and Natalie were giving me that they were thinking the same question: _how could he possibly know that we were talking about the murder of Denise Hossack when we hadn't yet mentioned the name of the victim_? "So you know the victim?" Adrian asked.

"Her and her sister Danielle," O'Brien said, "Danielle's actually employed by my organization."

"How did you come to know the Hossack sisters?" I asked.

"They were among the first investigators we hired," O'Brien replied, "Danielle and Denise. I actually took a very big interest in Denise."

"What do you mean, big interest?" Natalie asked.

After a pause, O'Brien said, "We were having a sexual affair."

This was a bit of a shocker. We knew Denise had been involved with Luke Reordan, but she was also involved with O'Brien, one of our persons of interest in the armored car robbery?

"Really?" Adrian asked. "But you're married. You've got a ring." He pointed to the wedding ring on O'Brien's ring finger.

O'Brien grimaced. "OK, I'll admit it, I was also cheating on my wife Callie in sleeping with Denise."

"I assume that you didn't cheat on her through Ashley Madison?" I said. Adrian and Natalie covered their hands with their mouths to stifle giggling. I saw a small smile form on O'Brien's face, suggesting to me that even he was amused at my suggestion that he would use that online dating site that had been compromised by hackers the year before to have an affair.

"No, Miss Davenport, I wouldn't," O'Brien said. "Denise just was, well, for lack of a better word, drawn to me. I mean, she was attracted to me, and I was attracted to her, and let's just say, we made it work."

"Did anyone else know about this affair besides you and Denise?" Adrian asked.

"Nope, no one knew," O'Brien replied, "Not even her sister. This means we couldn't have any trysts at her house. We always had to have them here."

"How do you have an affair without your wife finding out?" I asked.

"We only engaged in it when Callie was taking her weekend trips to visit her parents down in Monterey," O'Brien replied, "Oh, and uh, a lot of soap and shampoo to wipe away any evidence of Denise Hossack from my body."

"So, Denise worked at Intertect at one point," Natalie said, "We understand that about maybe six or seven months ago, she left for _Bullseye_ Magazine?"

"That investigative news magazine," O'Brien said. He frowned. "Six months ago, Denise resigned from Intertect. And she got a job as an investigative reporter with _Bullseye._ But we still continued to sleep with each other. Although I'll be honest, when we did meet, she didn't seem like the Denise I had first met."

I leaned in closer. "Denise seemed like a different person?"

"Yeah," O'Brien scoffed, "During pillow talk, she would ask me a bunch of questions about what Douglas O'Donnell, our CEO, was up to. She claimed that she'd found evidence that O'Donnell was a terrorist."

"Come again?"

"She claimed that she'd found evidence that O'Donnell staged attacks on major companies to sink their stocks and turn a profit," O'Brien replied, "And last week, when we last met, she said she thought he was plotting to assassinate someone."

"Did she say who?"

"No, but she said it was a very significant and very influential person. I didn't get a name. I thought it was crazy talk, this notion that O'Donnell was a terrorist."

"A plot to assassinate a politician," Adrian said. "Very interesting."

"And it was Thursday morning that I read about her death in the _San Francisco Chronicle_ ," O'Brien said. "You said it was murder?"

"It's possible," Adrian replied, "We found evidence that suggested that someone she trusted was invited into the house, and whoever it was proceeded to kill her in a way that looks like an accidental drowning."

"So, for the record, did you ever go to Denise Hossack's house?" I asked.

"Yes, on a couple of occasions," O'Brien replied, "Most recently it would have been this past Tuesday, the day before she died."

"What were you doing there?" I asked.

"We were there to engage in lovemaking," O'Brien said, "Her sister wasn't home, so we thought it was safe."

"Where were you between the hours of 9:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. that night?" Natalie asked.

"I was here, at home, with my wife," O'Brien replied. "I didn't kill Denise Hossack, if that's what you're asking."

Adrian looked at O'Brien for a moment, trying to figure out what to ask next.

"Mr. O'Brien, have you ever been to McCabe's Irish Pub?" he finally asked.

"Nope, I can't say that I have," O'Brien said, "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Adrian said, "But a friend of ours swears that they saw you and Douglas O'Donnell there on Thursday evening, having a conversation with two suspected criminals."

"They're mistaken," O'Brien replied, "Why would me or Douglas be going there?"

"I don't know," Adrian replied, "She probably was just imagining things. Do the names Bobby Murdoch and Dennis Donoghue ring a bell with you, O'Brien?"

"No, not at all," O'Brien said, "Any other questions? 'Cause I've got visitors coming over for dinner tonight and I need to start prepping the house."

Adrian, Natalie and I looked at each other. "Nope. None at the moment," Natalie said, "We'll be on our way, then." We started towards the door.

"Thanks again for your time, Mr. O'Brien," I said, "If you can think of anything that can help us with the case, please don't hesitate to contact."

"It's no problem," O'Brien replied.

"Take care," Adrian said.

* * *

"What did O'Brien say?" Danielle asked when we met her outside on the sidewalk.

"He said that he was having an affair with your sister," Adrian said, "Did Denise ever mention sleeping with O'Brien to you, Danielle?"

"No, she didn't," Danielle replied, "Of course, it wouldn't surprise me that she would also sleep with him at the same time that she was sleeping with that boyfriend of hers from _Bullseye_. Investigative journalists are like that – sleeping with their sources just to get information. I'll admit it, some of Intertect's operatives are known to sleep with their suspects to get confessions. I was never one of them, though."

"I have to concur, Danielle," Natalie said.

"So did he kill Denise?" Danielle asked.

"He claimed to be here, asleep, with his wife, at the approximate time that Denise was killed," Adrian said, "Of course, he kinda sounded like he was lying. Considering that fingerprint from your house, Danielle, that we matched to O'Brien, I'd say there's plenty of evidence to justify putting him under surveillance. We might need to ask his wife to confirm his alibi for all of the murders, just in case."

"Of course, that might take a while because she won't be back in town until Monday," I said, "According to Eddie."

"The other interesting thing is that O'Brien claimed that Denise thought O'Donnell was plotting an assassination," Natalie said.

"Interesting," Danielle said, stroking her chin.

"What sort of person would O'Donnell target?" I asked.

"There's always the CEOs of other big Fortune 500 companies," Danielle said, "If O'Donnell has any stakes in them, he probably would profit from the devaluation of their stocks that would result from a terrorist attack or an assassination."

"If that's the case, why would he be robbing an armored car?" Natalie asked.

"Perhaps the money stolen is actually being used to finance this assassination scheme," Adrian said, "Pay off hitmen, that sort of stuff. That's why none of the fences have reported seeing anything."

"Then how do we go from here?" Danielle asked.

"We could stake out O'Brien's house here and see where he goes," Adrian said.

"About that?" Danielle said, holding up a finger, "I—I don't think I'd be up to that. It's just that after what happened at the restaurant, I think that option of tailing him would just lead to violence."

Adrian took a look at Danielle.

"What?" she asked.

"Danielle, I've got a weird question to ask you, but, have you ever been to a shooting range?" he asked.

Danielle shrugged. "Yeah, but not in a while. I think the last time I ever went to a range was on my sister's 18th birthday. That was about ten years ago."

Adrian frowned and shook his head. "It just occurred to me after what just happened at McCabe's, that Danielle, you really need to have some firearms training. If you want to go up against Douglas O'Donnell and his droogs, well, you'll need to have some very sharp shooting skills."

"That's a nice offer, Mr. Monk," Danielle said, "But I, frankly, think I could use a couple hours at home to recuperate and relax."

"Danielle, the most relaxing thing in the world is firing off a couple hundred rounds at lifeless targets!" I said.

"You serious, Kendra?" Danielle asked.

"I'm with Adrian on this," I said, "The important thing, Danielle is that you really need to know, in your bones, that if O'Donnell tries to engage you in a firefight, you'll be capable of handling yourself."

"She's got a point," Natalie said.

Danielle sighed. "All right, maybe it wouldn't hurt to get some target practice in. Where's the range, by the way?"

"It's over out on the southwest side of Lake Merced," Adrian said, "Just follow us in your car."

* * *

Lake Merced is the freshwater lake in the far southwest corner of San Francisco. And that's literal, by the way. The lake's southern end is right on the border between San Francisco County and San Mateo County. It's surrounded by golf courses, high schools, San Francisco State University, and of course, the firing range.

The San Francisco Police Department firing range was located off of Skyline Drive, the road that runs along the lake's west bank, at its intersection with John Muir Drive. Adrian, Natalie and I treat the range as an amusement park for cops and security professionals and any occupation where carrying a firearm is mandatory.

Our favorite part is the fake city street set. It's basically something akin to those New York backlots in Hollywood, except, here, there are also painted cardboard cutouts that pop up from behind various windows, cars, and doors. The figures, of course, are all cartoonish caricatures, with gunmen and bank robbers being depicted, for instance, as a man wearing a black mask, a black-and-white striped shirt, and carrying bags with dollar signs on them. Of course, the three of us knew from what we'd seen of O'Donnell and criminals like him that seldom do you find crooks who are kind enough to dress in ways that instantly scream to the world "Hi, I'm a bad guy!" But for Adrian, Natalie and me, we always had fun walking down the fake street, our duty pistols drawn, doling out lots of bullets to obvious bad guys, and sometimes inadvertently, the occasional nun, doctor, or schoolteacher, though, considering some of the bad guys we'd put away in the past couple of years, I could easily justify shooting them by claiming that they harbored criminal intent. And unlike O'Donnell henchmen, there wasn't any paperwork to fill out for "killing" the targets, 'cause they weren't even alive to begin with.

Adrian, Natalie and I each did a walkthrough of the course with Danielle watching. Once Natalie completed her run, Danielle went out with a gun that Adrian had supplied her. She managed to take out every bad guy target on the range, and only one innocent "civilian". She admittedly was a bit more conservative with ammunition, but then again, that was only possible because this was a controlled environment and thus, she wasn't going to be facing off against bad guys with MP5Ks.

"Good work, Danielle!" Adrian said when she completed the city street course. "How do you feel?"

She was grinning from ear to ear. "Are you kidding? That was the best experience ever! Too bad that Denise couldn't be around to see this."

"Well, it's the experience of shooting a weapon that counts," Adrian said, "For a novice, you were pretty good out there. But you're going to need more practice."

"Practice?" Danielle asked.

"Unlike Douglas O'Donnell, those targets you just shot don't return fire," Adrian said, "This course is merely meant to test your ability to make split-second decisions during gun battles. Look, why don't you just spend a few hours on the indoor range? You won't become a sharpshooter overnight, but it would be good practice for you."

Danielle smiled at him. "Oh, thanks a lot, Mr. Monk! I appreciate this. I feel like I could take on an entire army now."

"Do you even carry a weapon around with you?" Natalie asked.

"I do keep a gun on my nightstand at home," Danielle replied, "It's useful against fending off burglars. I would use it in the field, except I don't have a holster like you guys do."

"You should go get one," I said, "Shoulder, hip, or ankle. Shoulder is probably the best, hip is probably better, depending on which you think has easier access."

"I'll get right on it today!" Danielle said. She seemed giddy, about as giddy as I usually was every moment I was around Adrian. With that, she headed back to her Prius and drove off.

"Would you look at the time?" Natalie said, checking her watch, "It's almost six o'clock. I think we should go grab dinner. What do you say?"

"Natalie, I have to agree," Adrian clapped his hands. "Let's eat."

"You have any ideas in mind, Adrian?" I asked.

"There's the Ameglion on 24th Street," Adrian said, "It's a few blocks down from Edward O'Brien's house, actually. I hear they serve good steaks."

I stepped over to Adrian and kissed him. "After a shootout and some target practice, consumption of red meat seems practically justifiable in my book."

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, that was a deliberate nod to the Ashley Madison hacking scandal I put in there. It only seemed relevant.


	20. Ameglion Dinner and a Show

24th Street is practically the center of Noe Valley's cultural landscape. Both sides of the street are lined with bakeries, patisseries, bistros, pubs, taverns, and various other restaurants. It was also merely blocks away from both the house where Douglas O'Donnell had shot Melissa Carney in cold blood post-coitus the previous Thursday morning, and where Edward O'Brien lived.

* * *

The Ameglion was one of these bistros, located at 24th and Church Streets, on the west side of the J-Church Muni Metro tracks. While a bit more stylish than we'd dressed for, we had deep enough pockets to afford to eat here. Adrian, Natalie and I all ordered steaks, medium rare of course, and a healthy side of vegetables. As we waited for our food, I thought about how the day had gone. What had transpired over the course of the day really had gotten to me. It wasn't just the dead bodies of O'Donnell's henchmen being wheeled out of the Irish pub after the shootout, but everything else that went along with that, like the stakeout of O'Donnell's house, or questioning a murderer and adulterer in his house, or a couple hours of target practice at the SFPD's firing range. All this, on my last day of being a 27 year old woman.

"What do we do now?" I asked as we waited for our entrees to arrive. "I mean, we know now for certain that O'Brien was an accomplice to O'Donnell. Why can't we just arrest him and get him to give up O'Donnell?"

"Because, Kendra, he provided a somewhat valid explanation for what his fingerprints were doing at Denise Hossack's house," Adrian said, "I hate to say it, but any lawyer could reasonably make an argument that renders those prints inadmissible."

I scoffed. "Gee, that's helpful."

"Blame the high standards our justice system has," Natalie said.

"But he's still a criminal," I said.

"I tell you what," Adrian said, "We'll arrange for your dad to have Edward O'Brien's wife picked up when she comes home. Maybe she'll talk about what crimes O'Brien may or may not have committed by himself or on O'Donnell's orders."

"You think she'll have something to say about her husband?" Natalie asked. "I think it might be very hard to compel her into testifying against Edward."

"Oh, we'll find something," Adrian said, "We've got some of the most professional police interrogators and negotiators in the state of California. They'll make her sing like Mandy Moore if they have to. They'll make any attempt to claim spousal privilege pointless."

"Unless he was clever and kept everything so tight-lipped she doesn't even know he's a criminal," I said.

"We can't rule out the possibility of that either," Adrian said.

"What about looking for Douglas O'Donnell?" I asked.

"I called your dad, Kendra, while you were doing your run through the fake city street," Adrian said, "There's no sign of him. He isn't at his house and he isn't at the Intertect offices. It's like he's gone into hiding as a result of what just unfolded today."

"Where could he be?" Natalie asked.

"He could be anywhere," Adrian said, "Though if you asked me, I'd say that he probably is still in the Bay Area somewhere, plotting his next move in secret."

"Where? The Bates Motel?" Natalie asked.

"Probably, Natalie," Adrian said. "Motels are a very good place for criminals to hide out for a couple days until the heat dies down. I suppose we should have every motel in the Bay Area on high alert..."

His voice trailed off as he glanced at a couple that a waitress was seating at the table right next to ours. The woman appeared to be in her thirties with chestnut brown hair and was wearing a sky-blue dress. The man appeared to have a nasty sunburn on his face and had what appeared to be tiny flecks of red paint in his hair and on his neck. And he smelled strongly of turpentine. To me, he looked like he was some kind of painter who must have done a lot of outdoor work. Frankly, I didn't see what his date saw in him, but she must not have cared about his looks. When Adrian, Natalie and I are in public, I have a habit of trying to look at people and deduce things about their lives from what they wear, how they walk, how they interact with other people. It was all a game I like to play with myself to keep my mind sharp when it came to investigating homicides.

"What does she see in him?" Adrian asked.

"I don't know," Natalie said in a low voice, so as not to be heard by the man, "Maybe she has a thing for painters who don't take care of their personal hygiene."

"I think the same thing," I said, "Frankly, it's a good thing, Adrian, that you're more handsome than that guy is."

Adrian smiled.

"You want to know what I think, ladies?" he asked. "I think he could actually be a bank robber who I'm about to explain to you made some big mistakes."

"What makes you say that?" Natalie asked.

"Watch and learn," Adrian said. He turned to the painter and his date, put on a friendly smile, then cleared his throat to get the man's attention.

"Hey," Adrian said.

"Hi there," the painter's date said.

"You a painter or something there, sir?" Adrian asked.

The painter gave Adrian a look of surprise. "Come again?"

"Oh, well, my dates here and I couldn't help but notice that you've got bits of paint in your hair and on your neck," Adrian said, gesturing to me and Natalie, "Not to mention the sunburn. It's a dead giveaway that you work outdoors."

The painter suddenly appeared to become self-conscious and ran his hands through his hair as if looking for any paint flecks that he might have missed.

"Really, you can see that?"

"It's a gift and a curse," Adrian said, "At least, that's what my wife calls it. I see things that others don't, and occasionally things that others try to hide from me."

"Amazing," the painter said.

"It's the best thing I like about him," I said, putting my arm around Adrian.

"Yep, it's amazing," Adrian said, "But what's even more amazing is that I think you might be a bank robber."

"What?" the painter's date asked.

It sure enough was all that Adrian needed to provoke the guy into revealing his true colors. He got up from his table as if to make a sudden break for it, but Adrian, Natalie and I drew our guns and aimed them at him. He immediately put his hands up in surrender, knowing that he was outnumbered.

"Oh don't go away," Natalie said, "We were just getting to know you!"

* * *

We held the fake painter at bay while Natalie used her cell phone to call the police. They showed up about a minute later to take him into custody. His date also accompanied him to the station. It was worth the price of getting a couple of stares from other restaurant patrons who were a bit surprised to see us pull guns on an unarmed patron.

While we waited for our entrees to show up, we didn't talk about the arrested robber, or Douglas O'Donnell, or Edward O'Brien, or any of the crimes that they had committed. Our talk was more about the President's visit. The three of us didn't like political rallies or crowds that much, but it was interesting to follow politics on the news when the news wasn't focused on O'Donnell's crimes.

"Sure is convenient timing for O'Donnell to be committing this robbery spree," Natalie said, "Right when the media is going to be descending on San Francisco."

"That was probably his plan from the start," Adrian said, "Time his streak of violent crimes to maximize the amount of press coverage dedicated to them. Trust me, Natalie, Kendra: the media loves to sensationalize violent crimes and criminals. With the armored car robbery, the McClellan ambush, Martha Jansen's murder, and the shootout at McCabe's today, that's a lot of stuff for the media to go on."

"Wouldn't be surprising if they claim San Francisco is having a crime wave," I said, jokingly.

Adrian and Natalie laughed. "Of course they would," Adrian said, "They'll say anything as long as it's something that sells papers."

"So, like, what's the President's schedule like?" I asked. "Out of curiosity."

"That was also something I checked on while you were doing target practice, Kendra," Adrian said, "The President arrived around the same time we were shooting it out with O'Donnell's gang. I believe he's staying at the Palace Hotel downtown."

"Oh," I said, "That's interesting."

"What's he doing tomorrow?" Natalie asked.

"I believe he's got some speaking engagement going on tomorrow afternoon in San Bruno," Adrian said. "At least, that's what your dad said is happening according to his friends in the Secret Service, Kendra."

"That's nowhere near San Francisco," I said.

"There's, like, ten miles of peninsula between the two," Natalie said.

"Right," I said.

"He's then scheduled to have rallies in Laurel Heights and AT&T Park on Monday," Adrian said, "I didn't get any details beyond that."

"Well, you tried," I said.

"You know, I sometimes think we'll be invited to the White House one of these days," Adrian said, "I'm just saying, ladies."

I smiled. "Oh, that would be the best thing ever. See myself posing with you and the president."

"Sure would," Adrian said, "We might be seen as heroes."

* * *

Eventually our entrees arrived. I felt ravenous after the day we'd just had, so I plunged into my steak almost immediately. Natalie looked to be the same. While we ate, one question was still bothering me. It had to do with the painter that we'd just apprehended. I finally mustered up the courage to ask this question as the waitress was clearing away our plates.

"Adrian, can I ask you something?" I said.

"Sure, Kendra," Adrian said.

"It's about that fake painter that we had arrested earlier," I said, "How did you identify the guy as a bank robber?"

"You probably would have known he was, too, if you'd paid a little more attention, Kendra," Adrian said, "Like, if you'd smelled him."

"I figured from the paint on his skin and his sunburn, and the turpentine, that the guy was a painter," I said, "You asked and he confirmed it. And then you turned and said he was a robber."

"But he was a robber, still," Adrian said, "You saw the signs right there, ladies."

"We did?" Natalie asked. "What did we miss?"

"The money he took was probably booby trapped with dye packs that blew up in his face," Adrian said, "He probably had a mask on, but the dye still got into his hair, and on his ears and neck. That burn mark on his skin wasn't actually sunburn, but actually skin irritation, probably from the strong turpentine and rubbing that he did trying to get the dye off."

Natalie shook her head in disbelief. "This is why the department values us so much, Adrian. We're not even investigating something and yet you solve a crime."

I wasn't quite finished yet. I didn't quite see how both assumptions could work.

"You made one set of assumptions based on the evidence and I made another in my head," I said, "Mine could have been just as valid. I could have been right."

"But you couldn't, Kendra. You weren't looking closely at everything," Adrian said. "For instance, you saw that he had paint in his skin and hair. But I also saw that this was only on his neck and ears. He was wearing a mask and long sleeve shirt."

"Painters still wear long sleeves," I said.

"But his eyes were bloodshot as well, the result of being struck by tear gas that also got released when the dye pack blew," Adrian said.

"Bloodshot eyes could also be suggestive of looking into the sun while not wearing sunglasses, or from allergies, or from getting paint into them," I said, "Those are also valid explanations, aren't they?"

"Red dye has a substantially different composition from latex paint," Adrian said, "There's a noticeably different texture to them."

"Markedly," Natalie said, nodding. "I guess you learn something new every day, Kendra. That's the lesson learned."

"Yeah," I said. "I wonder if he's an O'Donnell henchman."

"In your dreams," Natalie said, "That would require a strong amount of coincidence for that to happen."

* * *

We left the restaurant about a half hour later and drove back north towards our apartment. It was getting dark and, with no sign of O'Donnell anywhere, we figured we'd just have to wait until morning to get a new lead.

Upon returning to our apartment, my first thought was that it had been a very long day. Besides the shootout and the shooting practice, we'd now arrested a bank robber in the middle of an otherwise enjoyable dinner. But now, I just felt like I needed to decompress. I said goodnight to Natalie and to Adrian, and settled in for my usual evening bath. After spending 20 minutes letting the hot water exfoliate my skin while listening to such songs as "The Ballad of Jesse James," "Pretty Polly" and "Happy Birthday Joe Bean", I dried off, changed into my pajamas and robe and curled up in bed reading the Bryan Burroughs book _Public Enemies: America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Creation of the FBI_. It was a book that my dad had gotten me right before Adrian and I got married. It was about the various outlaws who committed crime sprees across the Midwest during the three year span from 1933 to 1936, including such criminals as Pretty Boy Floyd, John Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, Bonnie and Clyde, and Alvin Karpis. Wait, sorry, it wasn't about those outlaws. It was more about the men of J. Edgar Hoover's newly formed FBI, and their efforts to take them down. My dad gave it to me because of two reasons. These are those two reasons: One was that we had personal ties to the manhunts. My dad's grandfather Jason Edmund Davenport, or "J.E.D" as we called him, was one of the agents who worked in the Chicago field office of the FBI under the eyes of Melvin Purvis and Samuel P. Cowley. It was also J.E.D whose bullets killed Dillinger on July 22, 1934. J.E.D. also was one of the participants in the shootout that ultimately killed Baby Face Nelson on a highway in Barrington, Illinois that November, and the one who put the fatal bullet in Nelson's head, although two of his fellow agents were killed. He died in 1990 at the age of 86, when I was two years old. The other reason my dad gave me the book, I recalled as I sat there in bed reading, came in the form of a conversation I had about why he bought me the book right before my wedding. I'd asked him, "Why do you want me to have this?"

He'd said, "Kendra, everyone knows John Dillinger, Bonnie and Clyde….they know who these bandits were and the terrible deeds they committed. But almost no one thinks about the men who brought them down."

"Why not?" I had asked.

"Because the good guys don't get ink like the bad guys do," my dad had said. "People know who Dillinger was because in that day and age, the media found that his name sold newspapers. Many don't know that my grandfather was one of the men who shot him outside the Biograph on that night. They merely remember him as the brother of The Davenport Group's founder."

"OK," I had said, "I assume this has to be relevant."

"You're marrying San Francisco's top detective," my dad had said, soothingly, "This book might even give you an idea of what kind of life you'll be living with him."

And reading about Dillinger made me think about our current investigation into Douglas O'Donnell. I had to think that O'Donnell and Dillinger had a lot in common. They knew how to evade the police easily, and they were pretty ruthless in how they committed their crimes. The only difference was that Dillinger personally had only killed maybe one person, while O'Donnell had been responsible for the deaths of dozens of innocent people and wasn't unwilling to kill his own men or let them get killed in order to accomplish his goals. But maybe I was thinking too much, and eventually decided that reading wouldn't be effective at catching O'Donnell. O'Donnell was like a whole new form of criminal. Around eleven o'clock, I put the book down on my nightstand and turned off my lights. I was fast asleep within seconds of my head hitting the pillow.

* * *

I'm not a mind-reader or anything, but what you're about to read here, and at a few other points in the story, was stuff that was happening to other people when Adrian, Natalie and I weren't present, and was reconstructed by me after the fact. In this case, I'm telling you what our friend Danielle was doing during this time.

After we left Danielle at the shooting range earlier that day, she got into her car and drove home. As she was driving, she didn't see how she was going to get justice for her sister Denise or for Luke Reordan. She knew now that O'Brien had been the one responsible for murdering Denise. And similarly to me, after everything that had happened that Saturday – the stakeout of O'Donnell's house, the shootout with O'Donnell's henchmen, and an afternoon of target practice at the SFPD's firing range - she also needed some time off to decompress. It was much to her surprise when she pulled up in front of her house and found a fire-engine red pickup truck parked in front of her house. Danielle had to smile. The truck was that of Matthew McQuinn, a firefighter that she was in the midst of a steady relationship with. He worked out of a firehouse just down the street from the house, which was probably for the better. Seeing his truck made her heartbeat quicken pretty rapidly and she couldn't help but smile as she climbed out of her car. McQuinn got out of his truck a moment later. I would describe him here, but since Adrian, Natalie and I would eventually meet with him, I'll save that description for when I first got to see him.

Danielle did a good job controlling her emotions, such that her appropriate response was to give McQuinn a friendly kiss on the cheek rather than tackle him onto the grass, rip his clothes off and have her way with him. Much to her surprise, when he returned her kiss, Danielle found herself yearning for him even more.

"This is a nice surprise, Matt," Danielle said.

"I've been thinking about you ever since I heard about Denise," McQuinn replied.

"Oh, you heard?" Danielle asked, taken aback by this remark.

"It was on the news," McQuinn said, "I'm terribly sorry. "How—how are you doing?"

"Just fine," Danielle said, "Very fine. I assume you obviously stopped by to woo me."

"What makes you think that, Danielle?" McQuinn asked, innocently.

"Your truck was parked here like you were checking to see if there was any activity going on in the house," she replied, "And your truck's not the most subtle vehicle out there. I mean, only the fire department is allowed to even drive vehicles with that particular shade of red. I've seen you drive by while I'm in my living room doing work for my boss."

"You got me. I was here to woo you," McQuinn said, "I hope I'm not taking up any of your time."

"No you're not," Danielle said without a moment's hesitation. "I admittedly have felt pretty lonely without Denise around, so I could use the company."

Danielle hadn't yet had dinner, so the first thing that she and McQuinn did was order a pizza. They actually talked quite a bit during and after dinner. McQuinn talked about some of his latest firefighting exploits. Danielle talked about the work she was doing for Adrian, Natalie and me. However, she never mentioned our names. She only mentioned that she and three of her Intertect colleagues were working on an internal investigation into one of her bosses, who they suspected had committed fraud (as opposed to armed robbery, murder, and domestic terrorism). She never mentioned the shootout, nor the McClellan attack on Thursday, nor Martha Jansen's murder, nor did she specifically mention O'Donnell's or O'Brien's names or that we thought O'Brien was responsible for Denise's death. I don't think she wanted to risk the possibility that McQuinn had been approached by O'Donnell and bribed to sleep with her for information. At any rate, Danielle was more or less relieved to find someone she could unload all of her anxieties on, not the least because McQuinn was a great listener.

Anyways, it went on and on from there, and to cut a long story short, at around nine o'clock or so, they had sex. I can't describe the act in detail in part because I wasn't there and because the amount of description that I'd need to describe every individual part of the act – the foreplay, the penetration, the climax, the post-coital stuff - would detract from the exciting pursuit of Douglas O'Donnell that you came to read about, but I'll at least give you the general highlights. I can tell you from what Danielle told us later, for instance, that she wouldn't have given in to her belligerent sexual urges if it weren't for the fact that she was still riding that emotional high that resulted from the shootout at the restaurant and all that target practice. It happened so naturally to her that it felt almost inevitable and right. And she felt none of the guilt that she thought she'd normally have had for engaging in such an emotionally reckless indulgence of hers.

McQuinn also seemed to understand without a word between them that this wasn't the beginning of something new or even the end of something old, but that he and Danielle were having a few intimate hours between two people who were attracted to each other and needed some comfort. Danielle found the sensation of his lips kissing her face very tender and sincere, and she luxuriated in the strength of his arms.

* * *

Danielle lay in bed for a short while after they'd climaxed, as McQuinn got up and quickly put his clothes back on.

"Hey, Danielle," McQuinn said, once he'd gotten his shirt back on, "Can I say something crazy?"

"I love crazy," Danielle said, sitting up, "What is it, Matt?"

"I know you're busy with that big case that you and your Intertect colleagues are investigating, but I actually was wondering if you could help me with a case."

"What?" Danielle asked, sitting up.

"On Wednesday night, our company got called away to a nasty car fire not too far from here, and when we got back, we found that someone had stolen some of our rescue equipment and killed our guard dog," he said.

"And….you want me to investigate?" she asked. "You visiting and making love to me was all a ploy to ask me this?"

"It kinda was," McQuinn replied, "But my rescue squad would also like to have one of its hydraulic tools back."

"My colleagues only investigate human homicides, as far as I'm aware," Danielle said, "And this big case we have is taking our full attention."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," McQuinn said, "But it's not just the equipment. We're talking about my station's Dalmatian. Someone shot him in cold blood to steal these tools." He scoffed. "The bastard. Why would someone want to murder an adorable, trusting, innocent dog like Sparky?" A tear welled up in his eye.

"Aren't the cops investigating then?" Danielle asked.

"We reported it, yeah," he replied, "But I don't think they've made any progress in the case."

Danielle sighed. She had to see if it was worth the trouble of sending Adrian, Natalie and me over to investigate something as mundane as the death of a firehouse dog during a burglary. Eventually, she made her mind. "I tell you what, Matt. I'll call my colleagues first thing tomorrow morning to see if they can stop by your firehouse to check it out. I've got other commitments I really need to deal with."

"You can't come over as well?"

"I need to do some target practice at a shooting range," Danielle said, "It's just standard Intertect protocol to test your firearms proficiency twice a month."

"Danielle," McQuinn said, "Sparky was a very trusting dog. All of the guys on my crew loved him. We want the culprits responsible to be brought to justice."

"I assure you, Matt," Danielle said, "That my friends are the best in the detective business. They revel in solving cases of this nature."

"Who are they, anyways? You're always dodgy when I ask you for their names," McQuinn said.

"I work in a very dangerous profession, Matt," Danielle said, "I can't tell anyone the names of my coworkers out of fear that they'll be killed. But they'll show up at your place tomorrow and they stand out enough that you'll identify them."

"Sounds like a done deal," McQuinn said. He walked back over to the bed and gave Danielle one final quick peck on the lips, and then departed the house. Danielle listened as McQuinn got into his pickup truck and drove off. Moments later, she fell asleep, possibly exhausted from the sex.

* * *

As Danielle drifted away into a state of blissful sleep, she had no idea that this sexual encounter she'd just had with McQuinn would be the last time she'd ever see him alive, or that Adrian, Natalie and I would be the last three civilians he would ever speak to…..


	21. An Exciting and Explosive Birthday

**Sunday, August 7, 2016:**

* * *

I actually slept very well that night considering every shootout and fight that we'd had with O'Donnell henchmen over the past few days. I think it was because I wasn't dreaming about O'Donnell's crimes, but rather was reliving the happiest day of my life to date: my wedding. My memories of that day were some of the best. I remembered Adrian wearing his police dress blues instead of a conventional tuxedo, my dad was his best man, Natalie was my bridesmaid, and that my dad had gotten one of his many friends, the honorable judge Clarence Stanton, to preside over the ceremony.

 _"We are gathered here today to join Adrian and Kendra in holy matrimony. They've prepared some thoughts of their own to share with you today before they declare their vows. Adrian, you may begin."_

 _Adrian turned and took my hands in his. "Kendra, you fill a big hole in my life that I've spent years trying to fill. I promise to love you with all my heart and that I will always be there for you, on the streets, during gunfights, and most importantly, in my arms."_

 _I had to fight the urge to break down crying._

 _"Adrian, I've always spent my life believing that the one thing missing from my life was a police investigator to spend it with. And now I've found you, and I promise you, I will never let you go, no matter what the circumstances may be."_

 _We turned to fact Judge Stanton, who then recited the typical wedding vows heard at weddings aplenty nationwide. I couldn't help the fact that I was getting pretty teary-eyed, but I maintained my composure. Once the vows were completed, my dad gave Adrian my wedding ring, which he slipped onto my ring finger with ease. A moment later, Natalie handed me Adrian's ring, which I gave to him._

 _"By the power invested in me by the state of California," Stanton said, "I pronounce you man and wife."_

 _My face broadened into a childlike grin as Adrian pulled me in for a big kiss, much to the audience's delight._

In part because of my wedding dreams, I actually slept so well that I think you could have fired an AK-47 with the barrel two inches away from my eardrum and I wouldn't be awakened. But eventually, I was pulled out of my deep sleep by the sound of my alarm clock going off at about 7:00. As I sat up, I felt like me whole body was sticky with sweat from head to toe. I felt even slicker than a frying pan after cooking up a slab of bacon. But I guess that your whole body sweating is to be expected when you go to bed wearing long-sleeve pajamas and a robe that are probably more practical for a winter environment, and you're sleeping with your comforter over that. My throat felt dry and my left arm felt numb, like I'd been sleeping with it at a crooked angle under my pillow.

Ah, what a beautiful morning.

I dragged myself out of bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, still feeling like I was reliving the events of the previous evening's gun battle.

"I can do this," I said to myself as I walked into the bathroom, "There's no way he'll be able to target us 250 feet up."

* * *

I took a nice hot shower, long enough soak all the sweat off my skin, then I strapped on my 'battle clothes': the black t-shirt, black pants, black shoes, and black Trafalgar vest-jacket I'd been wearing every day since Denise Hossack's death. By instinct, I also draped Greg Murray's old tour jacket over my left arm as a sort of security blanket. Looking at myself in the mirror, I could have been Snow White with my dark black hair, almost milk-white skin and dark red lipstick. I had just finished putting a bunch of spare gun clips into my pants pockets when I heard a knock on the door.

"Come on in, Adrian!" I said.

Adrian came in, and I noticed he was holding a small jewelry box.

"Happy birthday, Kendra," he said.

"What's that in your hand?" I asked. Then I smiled. "No wait, don't tell me, that's my dad's gift."

"Check it out," he replied. He popped open the box, revealing…..a gold chain necklace with a ruby pendant. I couldn't tell whether it was one Adrian had gotten for me or if my dad had dropped it off during the night. I squealed in delight.

"Do you like it?" Adrian asked.

"Are you kidding?! I love it!" I exclaimed, flashing my pearly white teeth at him.

"I figured you would," Adrian said, putting on a similar smile.

I picked up the necklace and took a closer look at it.

"Is this real gold?" I asked, feeling the chain between my pointer and index finger.

"24 karat," he replied. I looked back up at Adrian and grinned. "You have really good tastes. Is this the box that was on my dad's desk the other day?"

"Uh-huh," he said, "I swiped it while you and Natalie had your backs turned and I've been holding it ever since."

"You sly thief," I replied, grin unfaltering.

Adrian took the pendant back, and set the box down on my nightstand while he placed the pendant around my neck. When he was done and he'd secured the clasp, the necklace settled so that the ruby was centered directly below my larynx.

"Do you think I look nicer with this thing on me?" I asked, gesturing to the ruby.

"I don't think you look nice, Kendra," Adrian said. "It's more like, you _are_."

He suddenly kissed me on the mouth and all thought promptly slipped from my mind at the speed of a stock car.

I barely had time to react as he cradled my face in his hands and pressed his lips against mine. He broke the kiss and slowly pulled his face away from mine. My first thought was, _This is so passionate and so romantic, Adrian. Do it a bit harder_.

"Don't go away," I whispered. I leaned towards him, gripping the front of his shirt for leverage. I gasped as I felt him put his hands around my waist. My eyelids fluttered open, almost as if I was about to pull away again.

But it was clear Adrian's intention was to make out with me, and now I'd let that urge get the better of me. I moved my hands up to his neck, kissed him again, and took the lead. His lips parted and I began to explore his mouth with my tongue. Adrian made a small murmur of surprise and stroked my back.

This kiss was nothing like some of our more heated makeout sessions; this one was passionate, but also much more tender and sweet, and we were making out. I wasn't thinking at all about O'Donnell. All I could think of was Adrian – him holding me snug against him, his lips on mine, and his fingers mussing up my hair.

"Oh, Adrian," I whispered between kisses. He let out an audible hum in response. His hands began to move from the sides of my head down my back, holding me even closer to him. Boldly, I planted a light kiss on the side of his mouth. I pressed a few more in a line skimming his jaw and his neck, varying in intensity. Adrian shifted a bit, very vocal in his approval, content to give in to my ministrations.

"Kendra, you seem very satisfied."

Adrian's voice, now sounding roughened from desire, probably would have made him blush if it weren't for the heat from my kisses. I had paused somewhere over the neck of his shirt.

"It's my birthday, we've got a meeting with Paul Braddock, and we've been in several gunfights," I said, "What else could it be?"

Perhaps if Adrian had been looking a bit more carefully, he'd have seen my cheeks had flushed red.

"What matter more is that you're happy," Adrian said. I had my head nestled in the crook of his neck. He paused for a moment as he marveled at how right this felt before continuing. "It is, after all, your day."

I didn't immediately reply. Adrian glanced down to look at my face, buried in his neck. My skin must have felt unusually hot against his. "Kendra?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine," I said, practically squeaking.

Adrian chuckled. "You seem to be changing moods on me."

His chuckle was cut off when I yanked _hard_ on his face and kissed him again on the mouth, this time very forcefully. His hands once again moved to cup my face, fingering my long hair as he pressed his lips to mine, his tongue darting out to taste my mouth now.

I hummed into the kiss, putting my hands through his hair and holding him closer to me in reply. My finger movements were mirroring his, raking his scalp and producing some very pleasurable sensations in him and in me. I could also feel liquid warmth pooling in my midsection. His mouth moved against mine in an effort to taste more of me.

Adrian turned his attention to my own neck. My eyelids fluttered as I felt his tongue caress the exposed part of my collarbone not covered by my t-shirt or my jacket. I emitted a soft murmur that could have been anything. His lips were teasing with the soft skin around my lower neck. I suddenly wanted more pleasure in my mouth area, which now felt neglected. My hands seized his face and pulled it back towards mine, kissing him like I was on fire.

"Kendra," he growled against my lips, and his voice had this tone that sounded somewhere between needy and longing. " _Kendra_ …."

I gave a drawn-out moan as I kissed him again. "Adrian…"

Adrian wondered for a moment, on how my hair was hopelessly entangled in his fingers, my face was flushed, my eyes glazed over with lust, and yet I still looked beautiful.

Some internal degree of self-control inserted itself and Adrian gently caught my chin, pulling it up to meet his eyes.

"Hi," he breathed.

"Hi," I said back, meeting his gaze. I formed a small grin from my somewhat swollen lips. It took Adrian a moment to remember whatever he was going to say next.

"Kendra, I…" He took a steadying breath, "I love you very much, Kendra."

My eyes flickered. "…I do back to you," I said.

"But I…if _we_ could do that all over again," Adrian said.

"I know," I said, and smiled.

We spent the next few moments looking into each other's eyes, admiring each others' reddened lips and mussed hair. This was interrupted by a knock on my bedroom door.

"Adrian, Kendra, bacon's ready," she said.

Adrian turned.

"Coming, Natalie!" he said. "Kendra, it seems your fried pork fetish is going to be really satisfied today."

I grinned. "I could kiss you for saying that!"

* * *

Since it was my birthday, breakfast was going to be themed to my favorite food in the whole world: bacon. Yeah, I've mentioned that I have to eat red meat at every meal, but I have to eat fried pork every morning. It's the only meat that tips the three chief sensors of scientifically proven gustatory pleasure: fattiness, saltiness and sweetiness. And yet I still stay thin because of my high metabolism and the amount of energy I use up with makeout sessions and shootouts.

So for this morning, Natalie had cooked up a full slab of bacon on the stove, and had shown off her secondary skills as a professional chef by also supplying pancakes with bacon syrup.

Adrian, Natalie and I swapped sections of the _Chronicle_ between each other as we ate our bacon themed breakfast in the dining room, and admired the beautiful view of downtown and north central San Francisco. To no one's surprise, the shootout at the restaurant had made the front page, with the front page photo being a photo of police officers removing the bodies of the henchmen we'd killed from the restaurant. The front page headline read, "MULTIPLE CASUALTIES IN IRISH GANG SHOOTOUT".

"Well at least they're honest and not trying to embellish anything," I said.

Adrian read from the article, "Yeah. Even better, 'Department spokesman Leland Stottlemeyer refused to comment on the identities of the victims or the potential ties to the attempted assassination of El Dorado Trust chairman Patrick McClellan and his wife on August 4th. He also refused to release the identities of the officers who instigated the shootout, pending further investigation.' So they don't know our names. We're still very much in the clear."

I grinned at Adrian.

"Being in the clean is better than being dirty," I said.

"I know that," he said.

I took a small sip from my coffee cup.

"Anything in the morning crime reports, Adrian?" I asked. "I assume you were doing that before you came into my room to smooch with me and give me this necklace."

"Not much," Adrian said, recapping what he'd read, "There's been a double homicide in the Sunset District. Appears to have been drug-related."

"Who's taking that?" I asked.

"Papovich is taking that one," Adrian said, "We've also got a break-in at an Urban Habitat in the Richmond District. That's, uh, one of those furniture stores that sells compact furniture for confined spaces. Someone apparently broke in by shattering the glass on an emergency exit door but didn't take anything."

"Interesting," I said, "But none of our concern, I gather."

"Nope. As far as I can tell, it looks like a straight-up case of vandalism," Adrian replied, "And it's not the first break-in. There was another one last Sunday at an outlet in Pacifica."

"No crimes that sound like O'Donnell crimes?" I asked.

"There was one of interest," Adrian answered, "Some thieves broke into a Davenport Gas & Electric facility in Balboa Park last night and stole 15 Chevrolet Express vans."

Natalie looked stunned to hear her father's company's name being brought up again regarding criminals.

"How can we be so sure that the theft is O'Donnell's work?" I asked.

"I didn't say it _is_ O'Donnell's work," Adrian replied, "I said _there's a possibility_ that it might be him. Look, utility company work vans are very inconspicuous. No one ever asks any questions about them when they drive around. Plus, with the logo of a legitimate company on them, no one thinks they're actually being driven by criminals."

"Where are the vans then?"

"Whoever it is, they've probably been stashed in some secret garage or underground lair or warehouse," Adrian said, "But there's no proof that it was O'Donnell. Until proof comes up to suggest otherwise, that crime is being handled by the Auto Theft Division."

"Nothing new on the journalist murders or the McClellan attacks or Martha Jansen?" I asked.

"The fingerprint report arrived last night on Reordan's apartment," Adrian said, "The killer folded and ironed the dish towels and napkins in the kitchen. And they found some fingerprints on the iron that were matched to O'Donnell."

Natalie took a sip of her coffee.

"No surprise," I said, "He must have talked his way in."

"That's not all," Adrian said, "Forensics found some fresh fingerprints in Reordan's bedroom that were matched to Nikki Nemzer."

"Reordan and Denise's boss?" I asked. "You're saying she's involved?"

"It's also possible," Adrian said, "But then again, she may have just left them behind from a prior visit. I suppose we should question her again, just to be safe."

He took a deep, luxuriating breath. "Kendra, it being your birthday, is there anything you'd like to do? Aside from making out and meeting Paul Braddock and going out to dinner?"

"I'm up to just lounging around here," I said. Adrian and Natalie glanced at me. "Just joking. I would like to go to Alcatraz and look at C-D Street."

"We could do that," Adrian nodded.

You may have noticed that although she was there with us, Natalie wasn't contributing to the conversation, although it was clear that she was paying attention. She had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, she had her sunglasses on, and she was wearing a dark blue button shirt underneath the long coat that she wore to conceal her gun and magazines in public. It was the same clothing she'd worn yesterday. I was getting bothered by her silence.

"Are you okay, Natalie?" I asked. "You've been very quiet this whole time."

"I'm fine," she said, bluntly, "Thanks for asking."

"You sound a little tired," Adrian said.

Natalie sighed and removed her sunglasses. Now I realized she looked terrible. She had dark circles underneath her eyes, like she hadn't been sleeping well.

"Adrian, Kendra," she said, in a low voice, "I'm burned out by this case. I-I didn't sleep well last night. I spent the night imagining myself getting shot by O'Donnell in that restaurant. And you know what I thought? No more playing games, no more playing hide-and-seek. If ever there is a scumbag out there who deserves to get a bullet between his eyes, it's him. And after all that happened yesterday, I swear to God, I want that man dead. I don't care about his other men; I want O'Donnell _dead_."

Those last few words sounded very disturbing. It wasn't like Natalie to wish death upon a criminal like this. The way she said it, she sounded like she was disgusted that O'Donnell ever existed.

"Do you want to see a therapist?" Adrian asked. "The department's got a bunch of good ones to help cops dealing with PTSD after line-of-duty incidents."

Natalie made a small smile. "I appreciate it, Adrian, but I don't think Dr. Bell would be able to help. Besides, PTSD isn't a thing as far as I'm concerned."

"You're not usually like this, Natalie," Adrian said.

"And O'Donnell is not a typical criminal," Natalie said.

The three of us continued to look at each other for a minute or so. That minute was interrupted by the trill of my cell phone ringing.

I checked the caller ID. It was Danielle Hossack.

"Danielle?" I asked.

"Morning, Miss Davenport," Danielle said.

"This is a nice surprise," I said.

"I wanted to wish you a happy birthday," Danielle said, "I saw the notification on my Facebook page."

"Thanks, Danielle," I said. "Anything on Douglas O'Donnell, O'Brien, Murdoch, or Donoghue?"

"No," Danielle said, "I think they've vanished. They're probably in hiding. At least that's what my Intertect friends are suggesting."

"Really?" I said. "So what are you calling about?"

"You promised me that you were taking my sister's murder pro bono," Danielle said, "I was wondering if you could look into something for me."

"What is it?" I asked.

"There's this firefighter I've been seeing from time to time," Danielle said, "His name's Matthew McQuinn. We've been dating for a couple months."

"I don't think I want to know this," I said.

"…Anywys, last night, after I got home, he came over," Danielle said, "We talked, ate some pizza, went to my bedroom and yadda yadda yadda, he mentioned that a guard dog was killed at his firehouse on Wednesday night in a burglary, and some of his rescue equipment was stolen."

"You just yadda-yadda'd over the best part!" I said, "Were you fornicating?"

I heard Danielle sigh.

"Yes, we were," she said.

"Well I'm terribly sorry to hear about the dog," I said, "I take it he wanted you to investigate?"

"He asked me to look into it," Danielle said, "I told him that I was going to take some target practice today. I also told him I was going to send you guys."

"What, why can't you go?" I asked.

"I was lying when I said to him that I was going to do some target practice," she replied, "In actuality, I just need to pay a visit to my parents. They're probably worried sick about me."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," I said. I checked my watch. "Well, Adrian, Natalie and I don't have nothing planned for today aside from the meeting you arranged for us with Braddock. I suppose we can do it."

"Thank you so much," Danielle said, "I really appreciate this."

I was about to press the red button to terminate the phone call when something else struck me. "Oh, one more thing, Danielle, before I forget. You don't by any chance have a case file for this?"

"I got a friend in the SFPD to loan me a copy," she said, "It's at my house if you're interested. Do you want me to bring it over or…"

"We can stop by your place," I said.

"OK. I'll leave it in my mailbox."

I hung up the phone and relayed the message to Adrian and Natalie.

"As long as it's not an O'Donnell related crime, sure, we should check this out," Natalie said, "I'm up for it."

"Then let's do it," Adrian said, "Kendra, this can be your birthday present."

I turned to him and grinned.

"You think? Dog murders are a birthday present?" I asked. I threw my arms around him and kissed him again.

* * *

Once Natalie had put some concealer on to cover up the circles under her eyes, the three of us departed the penthouse at around 8:30 a.m. After taking a quick detour to Danielle's front porch to pick up the case file, which included forensics reports, ballistic reports, and witness statements, we were on our way to the firehouse.

Fire Company 10 in Laurel Heights had a dramatic view of Sutro Tower to the south, and sat on Presidio Boulevard, directly across Bush Street from a bus depot where Muni stored many of its electric buses. The garage itself was an ordinary redbrick building with three garage doors. The fire department seal was centered over the middle of the three doors. In the south berth sat two trucks – Light Rescues Unit 9 and C.B.R.N.E. Unit 1, one of the fire department's two Hazmat trucks. In the middle berth sat Ladder Truck #10 and the SUV for Battalion 10. In the north berth sat Rescue Squad #3 and Engine Company #10.

Adrian, Natalie and I parked our car at the northeast corner of Bush and Pine Streets, within sight of the firehouse. As we got out of the car, Adrian slipped on his sunglasses. I gave a look at him and grinned.

"What, are we playing Secret Service agents, Adrian?" I coyly asked.

"Do I look like a Secret Service agent, Kendra?" Adrian said, flirtatiously.

I laughed.

"Very funny," I said. I put on my sunglasses, and Natalie put on her shades as well.

"Kendra, I know I've said this to you before, but you look even more beautiful when you wear sunglasses," Adrian said. He impulsively pulled me in and gave me a fairly wet kiss. I smiled.

"You keep this up, you're going to set a new record for most times you've kissed me in one day," I said when he pulled back.

"What's the current record?" Adrian asked.

"I have no idea," I said.

* * *

As we entered the firehouse, I could see dozens of on-duty firefighters going around, doing business. It seemed like it was just a typical morning here.

A couple of men were cleaning the trucks with rags. I could see a few men doing inventory on the equipment in Light Rescues Unit 9. At the back of the garage, behind Truck 10, there was a table with several foldout chairs, at which about five or six guys were playing cards.

One guy stood up. He was a bald guy in his fifties, wearing a pair of spectacles. His dog tags said "WILSON."

"Excuse me, who are you three?" he asked.

"San Francisco Police Department," Adrian said, producing a police badge.

"What do you guys want?" the firefighter asked.

"Where's Matthew McQuinn? We were told he would be here," I said.

"What's this about?"

"We came to talk to him about his do-" I was midway through saying the word "dog" when a loud alarm bell went off. All three of us flinched.

"What the hell is that?!" I said, rubbing my ears, pained.

Everyone in the garage stopped what they were doing.

"Engine 10, Truck 10, Battalion 10, 1-9-0-8 Pierce Street, Fire," an automated voice said on an overhead speaker, "Engine 10, Truck 10, Battalion 10, 1-9-0-8 Pierce Street, Fire."

"That's us," the firefighter we were speaking to said to another firefighter. He and a substantial number of the other firemen jumped into action.

"Okay, but where's McQuinn-" I started to say, but the firefighter ignored us. I sighed. I muttered, "Some firefighter…."

We stood, dumbstruck, and watched as the firefighters of the listed crews slipped into their firefighting gear – coats, helmets, oxygen tanks, and gas masks – in a matter of seconds. I had to admire that how they were expertly trained at this craft. All of them slipped on large protective headphones as they climbed into their cabs.

"Let's go!" I heard a firemen shout to one of the drivers. The diesel engines on both trucks came to life. As we watched, the spinning red and white emergency lights on the roofs were activated. A moment later, I saw Battalion 10's SUV pull out onto the street. It activated its siren and roared away. At about the same time, Engine 10 pulled out of its space, waited until there was a gap in cars on the road, and then drove off. Another moment later, Truck 10 left the firehouse and drove off. There were three vehicles still parked in the garage –the Light Rescues unit and Hazmat truck in the south bay, and Rescue Squad 3 in the north parking bay.

The table we were standing by was forward of the left rear tire of the Hazmat truck, next to where the words "SAN FRANCISCO FIRE DEPARTMENT C.B.R.N.E. HAZARDOUS MATERIALS UNIT" were printed in large, white italic letters on the side. There were still a bunch of firefighters left behind: three at the table in the middle of the card game, three who were conversing near the SUV parked in back, and an additional three who were cleaning the decontamination truck with rags.

* * *

As the noise of sirens faded, we turned to the three firemen who were still sitting at the card table by the Hazmat truck.

"Excuse me, where's Matthew McQuinn?" Adrian asked them.

"He's probably back there," the Hispanic firefighter pointed to right behind the truck for Rescue Squad 3.

Adrian, Natalie and I walked over towards Rescue Squad 3. As we walked over, I noticed an empty dog's bed basket sitting on the ground next to the truck's cab doors.

"There's a stain," Natalie said, pointing to a discolored spot on the floor not too far from the basket.

"Looks like dog's blood," Adrian said, "It's probably from the guard dog."

There were a couple firefighters standing behind the heavy rescue unit, engaged in conversation.

"Excuse me!" Adrian said. "Which one of you is Matthew McQuinn?"

"Me," McQuinn raised his hand and stepped forward.

Now, I know I already described Danielle's intimate encounter with McQuinn the night before, but I did not describe McQuinn's physical appearance, because I didn't know what he looked like until Adrian, Natalie and I saw him that morning. McQuinn was about six foot tall, about two inches taller than Adrian, with a head of short brown hair. McQuinn was in his mid-thirties, with brunette hair. He had a nice affable smile on his face. He had round cheeks that softened his natural brawniness (he was heavyset and appeared to be about 200 pounds), and would make him seem strong and cuddly to a woman instead of muscular and tough like boxers' hands. Again, since I never was going to have an intimate relationship with this guy, I am just giving you my non-objective description of him. His arms were bulky enough that he could be a lumberjack strong enough to snap a tree with his fists or a single swing from an axe, or keep a woman snug and warm against his chest. He kinda looked like Kristoff from _Frozen_ if Kristoff was a firefighter instead of an ice harvester. He probably was as much of a womanizer as James Bond, but I honestly can't tell you if that was true because, well, I'm a married woman, and two, because of events that I will soon describe to you.

"Are you the guys Danielle sent?" McQuinn asked.

Adrian, Natalie and I looked at each other.

"Yes, indeed, we are," Adrian said.

"Can you guys see all right? What's with the sunglasses?" asked one of the firefighters McQuinn had been talking to.

"You've got to be sweating in that coat of yours," another firefighter said, gesturing towards Natalie, "It's like, 89 degrees out there."

"I'm fine," Natalie said, "We actually need to have a few minutes alone with Mr. McQuinn here."

"Do you mind if we talk away from your fellow crewmen?" Adrian asked, gesturing to the group of firefighters McQuinn had been conversing with.

"Sure," McQuinn said.

We followed him along the side of the rescue truck to the dog basket.

* * *

"I assume that Danielle told you everything about what happened here?" McQuinn asked.

"Yes," Adrian said. "Someone broke in here last Wednesday night, shot your dog, and stole some equipment."

"And you apparently also want someone to help you recover your missing tools," I added, almost as an afterthought, "But mostly, the dog's death. It's a real shame what happened to the dog."

McQuinn gave a small sigh. He sounded sorrowful as he resumed speaking.

"So, you must really like animals, ma'am?" McQuinn asked.

"Yeah," I said, "I know people who own pets get really sentimental when they die."

"Not to us, though," Adrian said.

"Boss, we don't own any dogs or cats," Natalie said.

"I know that. I was being wry."

"So how long did you and Sparky know each other?" I asked.

"I rescued Sparky from a pound about three years ago," McQuinn said. "We've been inseparable ever since. And of course, he was close to rest of us. To the point that really, we feel like we lost one of our own comrades on Wednesday night. In fact, we kinda think we're going to have him buried with honors."

"I'm sorry," Adrian said.

My attention turned to the bloodstain on the floor near Sparky's dog basket.

"So, what exactly do you three want to know?" McQuinn asked.

"I guess we might ask if there's anyone who would want to hurt your dog," Natalie said.

McQuinn's face tightened. He grimaced.

"Not that I know of, miss. No, wait, actually, I take that back: a few days before Sparky was killed, a guy named Nick Slade came by here. He lives in an apartment across the street."

"And what did this guy have against the dog?" Adrian asked.

"Love," McQuinn said, "Apparently he claimed Sparky was smitten with his Australian Shepherd."

"And I assume this guy Mr. Slade did not approve of the relationship?" Natalie asked.

"Not at all," McQuinn shook his head, "Not at all. He threatened to kill Sparky if he ever caught the Dalmatian in his yard."

"And nobody else?" I asked.

"Nope," McQuinn shook his head, "Sp-Sparky was one smart, sweet, trusting dog. We could take him to the cancer ward down at the children's hospital, or to the patients in the wards down at SF General, and he was good with people both young and old, even the tiny and the frail. Everybody loved him."

"Well, somebody clearly didn't," Adrian said, "Somebody who hated him enough that they shot him excessively, am I right?"

"So it seem," McQuinn said.

"So," Adrian said, rubbing his hands eagerly, "When was the last time you saw Sparky alive?" Adrian asked.

"Thursday morning around 1:30 a.m.," McQuinn said, "There was a big fire at a gas station down on Geary Boulevard."

"I think I remember reading about that," I said, "Wasn't an attendant killed?"

"Yeah, that's right. It took us five hours to get the blaze under control ," McQuinn said, "We got our units back here around daybreak, and we knew something was wrong when we were backing our trucks into the garage, because Sparky usually runs out and greets us when we are climbing off the trucks and putting all of our stuff away. And he's usually pretty happy about it, since he's wagging his tail…."

He sighed.

"Sir, it's all right," Natalie said, "We will find this guy."

"He'd been shot all over," McQuinn said, "Most gruesome thing I'd seen. We rushed him to a vet, but there was nothing we could do."

Adrian glanced at the street, and then back at the dog basket, then back at McQuinn.

"Was there any evidence of burglary?" Adrian asked. "I mean, weren't several rescue tools stolen?"

"Yeah, that's true," McQuinn said, "One of our hydraulic smaller cutters and a lightweight power unit was also missing."

"Oh," Adrian said.

"Was it unusual to leave the doors open and the dog all alone?" I asked.

"Not at all," McQuinn said, "See, that's one of the reasons that fire departments, historically, have used Dalmatians. They are guard dogs. That's just one of many facts you pick up when you are a dog-lover like me."

"And has anyone ever stolen anything from here before?" I asked.

"Never before, and certainly not last night," he answered.

Adrian mulled over that for a few moments and stared at McQuinn.

"I see," Adrian said, "Ladies, let's take a look."

* * *

We stepped away from McQuinn and walked over to the dog's basket. Adrian held out his hands and did his Zen thing. I smiled, mesmerized as always. He leaned down, and examined the dog basket. Natalie and I did our best to copy Adrian. I noticed a rubber hot dog chew toy still in the basket. I leaned down and picked it up. I grinned.

"Yo, Adrian!" I said, "Fetch!" I tossed it at Adrian, who instinctively dodged it. The chew toy landed harmlessly on the floor near McQuinn's feet.

The three of us laughed. Adrian walked around the basket and analyzed the scene for what must have been about two more minutes.

"Got anything?" Natalie asked when he straightened up.

"Yes," Adrian replied, "I think I have an idea of what happened here."

"Really?" I asked.

"Obviously, he was shot right here," Adrian said, pointing to the stain that Natalie had observed minutes earlier when we first arrived, "This was probably his favorite place to lounge around whenever the crews and the trucks were gone."

"How do you figure that?" Natalie asked.

"Well, the Rescue Squad unit doesn't always get sent out with the other crews," he said, "Some incidents don't require their special skills. But there are these scratch marks right here."

He pointed to some light scratches on the rescue truck just in front of the tire well and below the fire department seal. I squinted to glance at them through my sunglasses. They looked vaguely like claw marks. I reckoned that Sparky may have made them when he was stretching, rolling over, or just plain happy.

"Now, when Engine 10 and Truck 10 are both gone," Adrian said, "Sparky got a good view of the garage doors. But at the same time, when the trucks are parked, he would still enjoy the amount of foot traffic going through here."

Adrian cocked his head, looked around the garage, and took two steps forward, around the side of the basket, like he was placing his feet in a set of footprint casts.

"The intruder snuck in, probably through the front doors," he said, "He or she probably thought Sparky was sleeping. He also knew that the Dalmatian is a very rough breed. He probably had a pistol in hand and was intent on killing the dog."

He whirled around, looking at a rack of axes, shovels, and rakes on the back wall behind the rescue truck.

"However, the dog must have been woken up," Adrian continued, now stepping right up to the dog basket, "And, detecting the intruder, it charged him or her. Whoever it was, there must have been a struggle, and they shot him right here." He pointed to the dried blood stain on the floor.

"What kind of gun was used, Natalie?" I asked.

Natalie flipped through the case file to the ballistics report. ".38 ACP shell casings were found."

"That's not O'Donnell's weapon of choice," I said, "His is a Glock 17, which is a 9mm."

" _Was_ , Kendra," Adrian said, "He's changed to a Beretta, remember? Although it's still a 9mm."

"O'Donnell could still have been here," Natalie said, "Just not as the one who pulled the trigger."

"So why kill the dog instead of tranquilize it?" I asked.

"Maybe Sparky was one of those dogs that bark when he detects a known bad guy in his presence," Adrian said, "Or he was afraid the dog would remember him."

"That makes a lot of sense," I said.

"I think we need to look at those cutting tools that were stolen," Adrian said.

We walked over to McQuinn.

"Mr. McQuinn," Adrian said, "Could you show us an example of the particular tool that was stolen?"

"Sure," McQuinn said. He led us over to what looked like a giant bolt cutter sitting on the floor behind the Rescue Squad 3 truck. "We use this tool when we need to extricate someone from a tight space. Sees most of its use in rollover accidents and building collapses."

"What sort of steel is that?" Adrian asked, pointing to the blades.

"Heat-treated steel on aluminum alloy," McQuinn said, "Cuts through just about anything. It's like the Swiss Army Knife of cutting tools. However, it's not just a cutter, it's also a spreader."

"Which means?" I asked.

"Alternately, we can close the blades, jam this into a tight spot, and instead of cutting, we can spread an object apart or lift it off a person long enough to extricate them," McQuinn said.

"We're interested in the power unit," Adrian said. McQuinn motioned to a tool that looked sort of like an outboard motor missing its propellers. It fit into a square iron frame, with the bottom two bars being the feet for the unit.

"I see," Adrian said.

"The one that was stolen was like this one, just smaller," McQuinn continued, "It's a 2.5 horsepower four-stroke engine."

I nodded, as did Natalie, as if those stats meant anything.

"What sort of fuel does it take?" Natalie asked.

"The same as most car engines," McQuinn said, "Gasoline."

I felt a jolt go through my body. And I saw a similar jolt go through Natalie's and Adrian's bodies as something tugged at my brain.

Adrian squatted beside the motor to examine the feet. "So, could one person carry the power unit and the cutter at the same time?"  
"Absolutely," McQuinn said, "It weighs only forty pounds."

Adrian rolled his shoulders and tilted his head from side to side. Obviously, a new clue had come into his brain and he was trying to process it.

"And how much pressure does it exert on an object?" he asked.

"Depends on the size of the tool," McQuinn said, "I'd say that the one that was stolen probably had a maximum cutting force of about eighteen thousand pounds per square inch."

Adrian glanced at me. I glanced back at him. Then I glanced at Natalie. In that moment, I could tell what was going through his mind, her mind, and my mind: why we'd smelled gasoline in Martha Jansen's apartment, what had made those scrape marks on the bathroom floor, and how the individual sent by O'Donnell to dispose of her had mimicked an alligator bite.

"So, after robbing the armored car, O'Donnell and some of his men drive over to this part of the city and torch a gas station to lure the firefighters away long enough for one of his cronies to steal a cutter and power unit," I said.

"It looks like it. Whoever it was, he or she then glued alligator jaws to the blades," Adrian said, "Then the following night, a crony broke into Martha's loft, and knocked her out. He stripped her naked, tossed her into the bathtub, and filled it with table salt. Then he brought the jaws in and clamped them down on her. She struggled, and the power unit was dragged as result, streaking the floor."

"Sounds a little messy," Natalie said.

"And then the culprit loaded the body into his car and dumped it at the beach," Adrian said.

"So who would be ruthless enough to try that?" I asked.

That was when we heard a muffled popping sound. No wait, multiple popping sounds. I knew that sound. It was the sound I'd been subjected to a lot of the day before: the distinct sound of gunfire.

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I did what we were trained to do when we heard gunfire: we drew out our pistols. The strange thing is that it didn't seem like any of the other firefighters heard the noise, but I guess that cops have better hearing than anyone else. It certainly felt like that today.

"What the hell are you doing?" a passing firefighter asked.

Adrian held up his right hand and gestured towards the opposite side of the heavy rescue truck from Sparky's basket.

The group of firefighters standing there took the hint – that Adrian wanted them to take cover behind the truck, out of sight from any potential intruders – and scattered.

Adrian, Natalie and I moved behind the back bumper of the heavy rescue truck and waited, pistols drawn. About 25 seconds later, a group of three electricians entered the garage from the back, where the spare battalion SUV was parked. It took me just a moment to process what I was seeing: the electricians were wearing Davenport Gas & Electric uniforms, hard hats, and sunglasses. One of them was carrying a pistol in his right hand and had what appeared to be a Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun slung across his body from the shoulder. And I recognized the pistol: it was the new one that we'd seen in Douglas O'Donnell's possession at the restaurant the day before. There was no doubt in mind: the electrician we were looking at _was_ O'Donnell. The guy to his left, I suddenly realized, was Edward O'Brien. I'd recognize his sideburns anywhere, and he was also holding a knife and an MP5K. And the third guy was Dennis Donoghue. And he too, was carrying an MP5K on him and at least two pistols. I immediately felt my cheeks flash with rage.

"Oh, hell!" Adrian said to me and Natalie.

There were two firefighters standing in front of O'Donnell, Donoghue, and O'Brien, one a man, and one a woman. The woman had her back to the entering gunmen and didn't realize something was up until she saw her friend's eyes widen.

"What, Alex?" she asked. Suddenly, O'Brien grabbed her from behind by the hair with one hand and pulled her head back, hard, exposing her neck. She only had enough time to gasp in shock from her hair being grabbed before O'Brien took the knife in his other hand and slashed her throat. Blood spurted like a sprinkler as her jugular vein was sliced open, and she fell to the ground, dead.

"What the-" the male firefighter started to say, but a split second after O'Brien slit the female firefighter's throat, and while her body was still falling to the floor, O'Donnell raised his pistol, aimed it at the male guy's forehead, and fired once. The bullet hit the firefighter right between the eyes. He fell backwards, also dead.

The sound of the shot was audible to anyone in the garage.

"Damn it!" I said to myself.

.

O'Brien and Donoghue promptly raised their submachine guns and fired bursts at the ceiling. The gunmen then leveled bursts both in the direction of the street and towards the back of the garage.

The firefighters in the garage dove for cover at the sound for shots. Some weren't lucky. The three sitting at the card table next to the Hazmat truck froze up like deer in the headlights. Donoghue promptly leveled his submachine gun at them and sprayed a burst of bullets in their direction. All three fell dead before they could have had a chance to scream. O'Donnell fired his pistol once into the air, and then Donoghue fired another lengthy burst at the ceiling. They marched into the middle of the firehouse, training their guns at any visible firefighters that they could see. There was McQuinn, who had been standing just a few feet away from us when the first shots were fired, plus three guys who were standing near the cab of Rescue Squad 3, and three other firefighters who were lying on the ground near the back doors to Light Rescues Unit 9. We were crouching behind the truck's back bumper, pistols drawn.

"Damn it!" Natalie said.

"Everybody on the floor, now!" O'Brien shouted at the firefighters lying on the ground near the rescue truck.

"Nobody move!" O'Donnell shouted, training a pistol at McQuinn. Donoghue and O'Brien trained their submachine guns at the firefighters nearest to them.

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I peeked out from behind the rescue truck. We could see that O'Donnell, O'Brien and Donoghue weren't alone. Three other men, also dressed like electricians, had entered while O'Donnell was shooting up the place. These guys had submachine guns and they also were carrying toolcases. Although we were about 30 feet away, my eagle eye told me that the black one with the submachine gun was Bobby Murdoch. I didn't know the other twos' identities, but one of them had a submachine gun and looked like he was probably Japanese. The other appeared to be a Hispanic with big scar on the right side of his face and was carrying a shotgun, though he also had an MP5K slung across his chest. In my head, I made a mental note that the guy with the scar was known as 'Scarface', and the Japanese henchman was 'Watanabe'. That probably wasn't his actual name, but I needed one so I could keep count of everyone's movements and recap them to you.

Satisfied with what he was seeing, O'Donnell picked up the radio clipped to his belt and spoke into it, "Tommy, Lizelle, bring the vans."

McQuinn was the only visible firefighter in the garage who was defiant enough to stay standing. I saw 'Scarface' took up a position by the back of the rescue engine. O'Donnell, Watanabe and O'Brien walked up to McQuinn, O'Donnell training his pistol at his head.

"There's nothing you can steal here!" McQuinn said.

O'Donnell immediately struck McQuinn across the head with the barrel of his pistol. McQuinn yelped and fell to the ground, bleeding heavily from his scalp. O'Donnell then kicked him in the stomach.

I saw a look of disgust on Natalie's face.

"Oh my god!" she said.

"Get up!" O'Donnell said. "Against the truck!"

"Come on, pal," O'Brien said.

O'Donnell pulled McQuinn to his feet, and jammed the barrel of his pistol into McQuinn's back. He, Watanabe, and O'Brien then marched him over to the side of the rescue engine at gunpoint. Once there, O'Donnell spun McQuinn and slammed him up with his back against the truck. O'Brien walked over to join him.

"Round up those guys," O'Donnell said, pointing to both visible groups of firefighters – the three who were crouching in front of Rescue Squad 3's cab and the three between Light Rescues Unit 9 and the Hazmat truck.

O'Brien collared the three firefighters in front of the rescue truck and marched them over to the other truck, and lined them up to McQuinn's left. Watanabe and Scarface, meanwhile, collared the firefighters behind Light Rescues Unit 9, and lined these guys up alongside McQuinn and the other three firefighters.

A moment later, I saw a pair of vans enter the firehouse through the open door for Engine 10's berth. In spite of the tight space, the two vans proceeded to make a very tight counterclockwise U-turn so that they were lined up, parked diagonally, to block the view from the street. Not only that, but it also allowed me to observe the giant Davenport Gas & Electric logos on both vans. _It's two of the vans stolen in that break-in last night,_ I thought. I looked at Natalie and saw that she was scowling.

"Oh, hell," Natalie said, "I'm gonna kill him."

.

Watanabe, Murdoch and Scarface walked to the back doors of Light Rescues Unit 9. Murdoch set down his tool case and pulled something out of it.

"What is that?" Natalie whispered.

Adrian narrowed his eyes. "Looks like some sort of shape charge or something."

"What do we do?" I whispered. "Do we take them out?"

"We do nothing, Kendra," Adrian whispered back.

"Well we have to do something!" I hissed in a low whisper.

"No," Adrian said, "If we step out guns drawn, they'll execute us like they're going to do to that group there."

"I'm sorry, _execute_?!" Natalie asked, startled. "And we're supposed to just sit here and hide while he kills people?!"

"Yes," Adrian said, "Natalie, he knows who we are. We escaped from him yesterday so he probably wants us dead."

As Adrian, Natalie and I watched, Murdoch fastened the explosive charges to both back doors of the rescue engine. He and Donoghue then moved back about twelve feet.

"What are they doing?" Natalie asked.

"Fire in the hole!" Murdoch shouted.

O'Donnell and his other men nodded their heads in acknowledgement.

Murdoch pulled out what looked like a detonator and mashed the button with his thumb.

Instantly, there was a small explosion. There was a brief, half-second flash of orange flame and a loud bang, followed by a large cloud of smoke. The three of us instinctively flinched at the sharp sound made by the audible bang of the mini-explosion. I saw Natalie grip the handle on her pistol a little bit more tightly. When the smoke cleared about five seconds later, there was a small square-shaped hole in the metal where the lock used to be. Murdoch, Watanabe, Scarface, and Donoghue stepped forward and pried the doors open.

"We're in business!" Watanabe said.

Donoghue leveled his submachine gun and aimed it into the truck. Murdoch and Watanabe grabbed cloth duffel bags from their tool cases, and a moment later, they climbed into the back of the truck.

I looked to Adrian for advice. He gestured with his head. "Keep quiet!"

A moment later, Murdoch and Watanabe emerged from the back of the rescue truck, carrying a duffel bag full of equipment. I caught a glimpse of what looked suspiciously like firefighting gear: yellow and black coats, pants, helmets, oxygen tanks and gas masks.

"They're robbing the truck for disguises," Natalie said, disgusted.

I could feel my anger rushing to my cheeks.

"Kendra, your whole face is turning red," Natalie said, cautiously.

I glared at her and gritted my teeth.

"I'm going to kill them," I said.

As we said that, Murdoch and Watanabe hauled the duffel bag over to the first van and tossed it through the open side sliding door.

* * *

Over the next three minutes, Murdoch and Watanabe, now being assisted by Donoghue and Scarface, made two more trips back into the Light Rescues truck, to grab more gear. It looked to me like they weren't just taking firefighting gear, but also tools like axes, saws, and a couple of giant bolt cutters like the tool we now suspected was used to kill Martha Jansen, and what looked like cutting torches. Each duffel bag was then thrown into the back of the first van. While this was going on, O'Brien and O'Donnell had their guns trained on the row of seven firefighters they'd taken captive. O'Brien had his submachine gun drawn and O'Donnell had his pistol drawn.

Once the last batch of loot was loaded, Donoghue and Watanabe shut the back doors of the van.

"Finished!" Donoghue said.

"Good," O'Donnell said. He turned to the firefighters and walked over to the one farthest from McQuinn.

"Now then, what do we do about you bunch of potato heads?" O'Donnell said.

"They've seen our faces, boss," O'Brien said.

O'Donnell promptly produced his pistol and put it directly to the head of the firefighter furthest to his right, farthest away from McQuinn.

My cheeks were burning hot with uncontrolled rage. I clenched my teeth together very tightly.

" _You have got to be kidding me_!" I said through my clenched teeth.

I thought I could see beads of sweat forming on the firefighter's brow. He clearly knew O'Donnell was about to shoot him.

* * *

Seconds later, it happened. O'Donnell promptly pulled the trigger and shot the firefighter in the face. With a loud bang, the man fell to the ground, dead, a very bloody bullet hole between the eyes. Blood and brain matter splattered against the side of the truck directly behind him. Adrian, Natalie and I cautiously backed away. As the first firefighter fell, the guy immediately to his right reached into his pocket and whipped out a pistol. O'Brien turned his submachine gun on that firefighter, and both he and Murdoch fired upon the middle group. A deafening roar of gunfire echoed through the garage. Instinctively, the three of us tried to back up further against the bumper of the truck, but we were as backed up against the bumper as we could possibly get.

The middle group of five firefighters jerked like marionettes as multiple bullets ripped through their torsos and legs. They stumbled back against the side of the engine. Then O'Brien fired another burst into the gun-carrying firefighter as he slid to the ground, just for good measure. There was no denying that all of these men were deader than dead.

I snarled in O'Donnell's direction.

"Oh, Jesus," Natalie said, sounding disgusted.

As O'Brien ceased shooting, O'Donnell turned to the other members of his gang. There was silence. Adrian grabbed me by the waist and pulled me closer to him. Natalie looked wide-eyed and disgusted.

Of the seven firefighters that O'Donnell had lined up, now Matthew McQuinn was the only one left still standing. As we watched, O'Donnell slowly walked over to McQuinn, pistol raised. The only noise we heard that broke this silence, besides the ringing of the shots in my ears, was as a diesel Muni bus drove past.

As the bus passed by, O'Donnell raised his pistol and fired twice at McQuinn's stomach. Both bullets hit McQuinn in the chest and he staggered backwards against the side of the Hazmat truck. As he did, O'Donnell fired again, this time hitting him in the neck. McQuinn was spun around by this wound and collapsed, landing on his stomach.

"Now Underwood's going to be stuck here for a while," O'Donnell said, holstering his pistol. "Let's move out."

He gave a hand signal to the driver of the first van that seemed to indicate "You can leave". Adrian, Natalie and I watched as the first van, the van carrying the loot, completed its U-turn. The van immediately pulled out of the garage. I could hear the sound of tires screeching and a horn blaring as it cut across traffic and made a left turn to head north on Presidio.

O'Donnell and his five other men were now about to start walking back towards the other van so they could leave, but then they heard the same thing we heard: gargling, and it was coming from McQuinn.

"He's alive!" I exclaimed. We could see that McQuinn hadn't quite been killed by the three bullets that O'Donnell had just put into him. Clutching his left hand to the bloody bullet hole in his neck, he started crawling on his stomach in our direction. He was leaving a long trail of blood across the floor.

"Oh, no," Adrian whispered, "What's he thinking?!"

Sure enough, O'Donnell made some sort of gesture to Watanabe and O'Brien. The three of them walked over to McQuinn, who'd managed to make it about seven feet from the spot where O'Donnell had first shot him. Watanabe, cradling his submachine gun in his hands, put his foot on top of McQuinn's left foot, which, in McQuinn's weakened condition, was enough to immobilize him. McQuinn twisted his upper body around, still clutching his bleeding neck, so that he could face O'Donnell. He held up his right hand towards O'Donnell and tried to say something, despite the fact that his vocal cords had been damaged. I could tell that he appeared to be trying to beg for his life, like, "Hey please, Mr. Terrorist, don't shoot me! Led me bleed out in peace!"

O'Donnell appeared unmoved. He drew his pistol and leveled it now at McQuinn's head. A split second later, he fired the weapon. With a loud bang, blood and brain matter splattered everywhere and McQuinn's arms and legs went limp. Now the guy was absolutely positively dead.

It isn't easy watching violence, pain, and bloodshed on any day of the week. The facial expression frozen on McQuinn after O'Donnell shot him in the face was that of a man who realized there was no chance of escaping a very painful death. When you see something like that, all too often you can't help but imagine yourself in the same situation and imagine what it might feel like. But Adrian, Natalie and I weren't like that. We'd had dozens of situations where people were killed in front of us, and each time, the feeling I had was one of outright rage. And I instantly knew that Danielle was probably not going to be happy being told that Douglas O'Donnell had just murdered her lover in cold blood.

Natalie gripped her pistol tightly. Adrian and I also gripped our own pistols tightly, to the point that I was certain I was leaving grip shaped marks on my fingers. Adrian, Natalie and I stood up and we broke cover. We didn't even bother to identify ourselves. I just opened fire on the henchman standing next to O'Donnell, in this case, Watanabe.

* * *

The angry expression on my face was the last thing Watanabe saw in that final split-second. He was hit in the chest and fell instantly.

Immediately, O'Brien raised his submachine gun and fired a burst in our direction. We ducked back behind the rescue truck.

I only now noticed that I was breathing pretty heavily. I glanced a look at Adrian and then at Natalie. Both of them looked dazed.

"Jeez!" I said, breathing heavily.

"Are you okay?" Adrian asked, clearing his throat, and slowly getting back up to his feet. "Come on, we've got to get them."

I stood up again, adrenaline surging through my blood as I let my anger take control of me. We broke cover again. Now Donoghue and Scarface raised their guns and fired. I dropped to my stomach, dodging both bursts, and proceeded to fire four rounds in quick succession. O'Donnell, Donoghue, and O'Brien immediately returned fire with their submachine guns. Adrian and Natalie also fired several rounds.

Natalie fired another sixteen full rounds, which was the equivalent of the rest of a magazine. Then she ducked back behind the truck to reload, as additional bullets pounded the truck, a support column, the back wall, and everything else in sight. I myself fired away at the men, until my magazine clip clicked empty.

"I'm out! Cover me!" I said to Adrian. Adrian stepped in front of me and fired his pistol towards O'Donnell and O'Brien as I curled up into a ball behind the truck, where Natalie had just finished reloading. I ejected my current magazine. Then I reached into my jacket pocket, and inserted a new magazine. Then I jumped up next to Adrian and fired back.

Adrian was firing strategically, firing off several more rounds.

"Oh, these guys are good," Adrian said.

O'Donnell and his men now fired another volley in our direction. We ducked back behind the truck to join Natalie. Adrian proceeded to reload his pistol.

"This is the most exciting birthday I've had in years," I said.

"You think?" Adrian said.

Another automatic burst pounded the side of the heavy rescue truck. It seemed to go on forever.

A moment later, I saw the face of one of O'Donnell's men come into view. All three of us raised our pistols and fired in that general direction. The henchman ducked out of sight, managing to avoid all of the bullets, which instead hit the hazmat truck just above the bodies of the executed firefighters.

We now popped out and fired again on the gunmen, who were headed towards the second van. A few of our bullets appeared to hit the van or shatter its windows. Donoghue and Murdoch rushed over to the driver's door of the rescue truck cab and fired in our direction. Adrian, Natalie and I shot back at them, one of our rounds shattering the truck's side mirror. This continued until I fired a round that I think struck just barely grazed Murdoch's shoulder. Merely a moment later, another bullet hit the rescue truck just inches from my head. O'Donnell emerged from cover behind the cab of the Hazmat truck and fired on us with his pistol. Adrian and I raised our pistols and fired at him, intending to drive him back. This did not do anything to deter him.

"Let's move a little further back!" Adrian said to me and Natalie. O'Donnell, O'Brien, Murdoch and Donoghue fired again as Adrian, Natalie and I fired back. We were forced to retreat behind the rescue truck again. After a couple of bursts of gunfire hit the truck, some of which popped the rear tire on the truck, Natalie and I broke cover and fired four rounds apiece at Murdoch and O'Donnell. Murdoch and O'Donnell were 'kind' enough to force us back behind cover.

"Geez," Natalie said.

O'Donnell broke cover and strode towards us, firing his pistol in the direction of our hiding spot until his pistol clicked empty. That was when we could hear the faint noise of police sirens.

"Come on, let's go!" he shouted to his men.

"This is your opportunity," Adrian said to me and Natalie.

Adrian, Natalie and I promptly jumped out from behind cover. We saw that the henchman known as Scarface was now close enough that we could both take him out easily. Each of us fired the remaining rounds in our clips at him. Seven of them struck Scarface, and he fell to the ground just feet from where Watanabe's and McQuinn's bodies were located, dropping his shotgun in the process.

O'Brien turned, raised his submachine gun, and emptied the rest of his magazine at Adrian, Natalie and me. We dropped back behind the rescue truck, bullets pounding the side of the truck. Once O'Brien's magazine ran out, O'Donnell grabbed him by the arm. The sirens were definitely getting louder.

"Let's go, Eddie!" O'Donnell said, "Cops are coming!"

Adrian turned to me and Natalie.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

I nodded, dazed.

"I've never been through anything like this," I said.

Adrian nodded. "Now you have."

"I can't believe this is happening," Natalie said.

This was the perfect opportunity for us to break cover. Having just reloaded our pistols, Adrian, Natalie and I stepped out to see that O'Donnell and O'Brien were standing by the side door of the van, armed with their submachine guns. A moment later, a pair of black-and-white SFPD cruisers came speeding along the street from the south, responding code 3.

Adrian cringed.

"They're going to be ambushed!" I said.

* * *

The lead police car screeched to a halt with its front bumper up against the van's front bumper. The other unit parked right behind it. Because of the angle at which their units were stopped, they obviously couldn't see O'Donnell and gang lying in wait to ambush them. Just as the first police car was coming to a stop, the gang opened fire.

"Ladies!" Adrian said to me and Natalie. All three of us reloaded our pistols and began shooting in the direction of the gang. Donoghue turned and fired his submachine gun in our direction. All of his rounds missed, instead flying past us and back into the firehouse. A few of his bullets struck the side of the Hazmat truck.

As for the officers, the moment they came to a stop and came under fire from the gang, they got out and begun shooting back. Both cops in the first unit launched an exchange of fire with O'Donnell and O'Brien that lasted about twelve seconds. The driver managed to squeeze off nine rounds with his pistol at O'Donnell and O'Brien before he suddenly fell, hit in the legs. His partner quickly sought cover inside the cruiser.

"Oh, my god!" I gasped. We looked at the officer who had just been shot. The bullet appeared to have punctured his shoulder. He was still alive and breathing, although he was definitely bleeding intensively.

The moment the gang's magazines ran out, they hustled into the back of the van and shut the door behind them. A moment later, the van driver floored on the gas pedal and started to push the two police cars in front of it out of the way. The officer who'd just been capped in the legs narrowly was able to get clear of his unit's wheels in time. I raised my pistol and emptied the rest of my current magazine at the van. I wasn't sure that I'd scored any hits on any gang members, but I felt it was worth it.

"Now what do we do?" I asked after I reloaded.

"Shoot the tires!" Adrian replied. We ran in the direction of the van, getting to it just as the driver managed to free it from the blockade. Now free of police vehicles, it took off.

"Get him!" I heard the kneecapped cop say.

Adrian, Natalie and I took off running along the sidewalk towards the corner of Pine Street, hoping to catch the van. As we ran, trying not to run out of breath, someone fired a machine gun volley in our direction through the rear windows, which shattered. Adrian, Natalie and I fired our pistols back at the van, as bullets hit the ground at our feet. I felt even more determined and enraged, like General Patton.

"We might be able to get them at the corner," Adrian said to us as we ran.

Just as we reached the corner of Presidio and Pine, the van swerved to avoid a crossing Muni bus. The driver blared on his horn. As soon as the bus cleared the street, I stepped out into the street, aimed my pistol, drew a bead, and shot the left rear tire of the van. With a pop, the tire burst.

"GOT YA!" I said, excitedly.

Natalie fired as well, shooting the right rear tire.

"That's two of four!" she said.

With two of the four tires out, the driver struggled to keep control of the van. Adrian, Natalie and I ran out into the middle of the street, and released a barrage of gunfire on the van, riddling the back doors with bullets. Whether or not they went through and hit anything was unclear. Eventually, the van crashed into the back of an Acura sedan stopped a half-block south of California Street. The hood of the car was demolished. At the sound of gunfire coming from down the block, motorists had stopped their cars and abandoned them, and several pedestrians dove for cover. As the getaway van was crashing, a group of three SFPD cruisers and one San Francisco Sheriff's Department unit screeched to a stop in the intersection behind us, and their officers jumped out with shotguns and pistols in hand.

"Get ready, ladies," Adrian said to me. We reloaded our pistols.

"Oh this is going to be exciting," I said.

I don't know why, but as angry as I felt, I also seemed unusually turned on now by the fighting. I glanced at Natalie. She looked seething mad as she loaded up.

"Come to me," she said, clenching her teeth.

* * *

O'Donnell and his stooges jumped out of the van's back doors. They turned back at us and started firing their submachine guns. Adrian, Natalie and I promptly began shooting our pistols towards them. This was going to be the most intense shootout to date that I'd been in.

"Sometimes I hate this job," Natalie said between rounds.

"Well you're stuck here," Adrian said.

"Let's not banter while shooting," I said, as I finished off another magazine. I quickly ejected it and reloaded.

Adrian, Natalie and I fired at the robbers from the middle of the street, spreading a base to keep them pinned down, and ducking down behind the engine blocks of abandoned cars for use as cover.

"This is worse than North Hollywood," I commented as I opened up.

One patrol officer, equipped with a shotgun and positioned behind the just-arrived police cars that were stopped in the middle of the intersection, ran forward and fired at Murdoch. Murdoch fired back. The officer suddenly fell, hit in the shoulder, as bullets tore up the three stopped cruisers. I winced, glimpsing it. Another officer stopped firing his pistol long enough to pull him to safety. The other officer of this bunch to be equipped with a shotgun squeezed off multiple blasts before he went down. One pistol officer was shot by O'Donnell, probably in his arm, and tried firing his weapon with his other hand even while being pulled away by a colleague.

"Those guys just are not going to give up," Adrian said, as we ducked behind a Hyundai on the west side of the street to avoid a burst of fire from O'Brien.

"Looks like it," Natalie said, reloading.

"Shooting to kill day," I said, as I fired at O'Brien and Murdoch.

"They're always trying to pick us off," Adrian said to me, "Never thought they'd be this bent on killing us."

Natalie jumped up and fired three times. O'Donnell answered back with his pistol. As he turned and fired his pistol north, in the opposite direction, we advanced forward, and found ourselves next to a pickup truck right stopped next to the getaway van. Adrian and Natalie fired their pistols at O'Donnell and O'Brien. They had fired about seven shots when the van suddenly went up in a giant yellow-orange fireball.

The shockwave threw us off our feet, but the pickup truck shielded us from the direct force of the blast as bits of twisted and scorched metal flew through the air and landed around us. The heat was very intense, like someone was holding a blowtorch directly against my skin. The blast was strong enough to partially deform the truck and every car within ten feet.

"Jesus!" I said.

"What the hell?!" Natalie asked. Flaming debris crashed down around us.

"That was a bomb!" Adrian said.

Four seconds later, more shots rang out. Bullets hit the ground near my leg. It was O'Donnell, firing his submachine gun. My rage boiled over once again.

"GET HIM!" I screamed.

I jumped up and fired in O'Donnell's direction, and ducked down behind the pickup truck when he shot back. We waited until there was a lull in gunfire. On the next opportunity, Adrian, Natalie and I stood up, adrenaline in complete control, and fired again. Adrian fired off three rounds, while Natalie got off five and I got off about four. Donoghue fired a burst at a group of officers on the east side of the street, who had been trying to stealthily advance on the gang. Two of the officers were hit, and critically wounded, while the others were forced to take cover.

O'Donnell and his men fired a few more rounds, and then they moved north, getting closer to California Street. Adrian, Natalie and I followed, still determined to not let them get away. We reloaded and advanced forward to a Lexus LX SUV stopped diagonally on the west side of the street, now about fifty to sixty feet from the robbers. I alternated between giving additional firing support to Adrian and assistance to Natalie.

As we shot at O'Donnell and his crew, I also tried to observe the way the men were moving up the street. They were very well trained. It was as if three men would shoot firing bases at us that would allow the fourth man to advance north through the abandoned cars. There were no visible bystanders in sight, almost everyone having fled or taken cover, which made this feel like we were fighting in some kind of post-apocalyptic ghost town or a war zone. The only sound that I could hear was the deafening echoes of gunfire.

Adrian, Natalie and me, and O'Donnell and his crew, seemed like the only people around.

"Too many cars!" I said after popping out and firing off four rounds, then ducking back behind another SUV a little ways further up the street from the burning van, "How do we get through to them?"

"Let's move forward to that Honda," Adrian said. We fired at O'Donnell and his guys as we moved across the street to the cover of an abandoned Civic.

By this time, I had burned through at least eight magazines – four inside the firehouse, and four in the street fight. Natalie and Adrian had also burned through just as many magazines. Fortunately, we still had plenty of ammunition. We'd been engaged in this gun battle with O'Donnell for several minutes now, and part of me was wondering why none of these four men who had escaped the firehouse had yet to fall and die. If there was one way to describe O'Donnell and his men, it would be "un-killable."

But now O'Donnell and his men had made it to California Street, and were standing in the middle of the south crosswalk, all of them firing their submachine guns back at us.

"Let's get a little closer!" Adrian said to me and Natalie. Natalie and I advanced another car space. It was still too far for me to get perfect hits. Adrian advanced once we made it behind a red Lincoln sedan, and joined me. It was now time to reload our weapons.

"Adrian, do you have any ideas?! Because this is clearly FUBAR!" Natalie said.

"Where the hell is that backup?!" I asked.

"I have a few ideas," he said, cocking his pistol at the same time that I cocked mine. Suddenly, we heard the sound of automatic bullets raking the other side of the car. The engine block was the only thing keeping us from being pumped with lead.

"I'll show him who's better!" I said. I stood up, leveled my pistol across the roof of the car and fired four rounds at Donoghue. Donoghue staggered back, shocked and surprised, clutching his shoulder. I'd finally hit him.

O'Donnell, O'Brien and Murdoch finished the remainder of the newest set of magazines that they had loaded into their guns as they sprayed at the car we were using as cover. As they fired, Adrian pulled me to the pavement, out of the line of fire.

I scorched him a disgusted look.

"I had him!"

O'Donnell, O'Brien and Murdoch rushed over to Donoghue.

"Charlie!" O'Donnell said.

"The girl with the black hair nicked me!" he said.

"We'll patch it up later," O'Donnell said to Donoghue.

* * *

While they had been distracted, Adrian, Natalie and I had reloaded, and crawled over to a space behind a blue Ford Fusion two lanes over abandoned in the left turn lane. I jumped up and fired my reloaded pistol five times. Murdoch and O'Donnell turned and fired their weapons in our direction. We ducked behind the car. During a lull, the three of us were able to advance one car space. Then Murdoch turned and fired a burst that sent us scrambling for cover behind a Mercury Mariner stopped just in front of the Ford. O'Brien and Donoghue also fired finishing bursts, and car windows exploded into numerous tiny fragments of shattered glass.

"All right, let's keep moving!" O'Donnell said once O'Brien and Donoghue had finished these magazines, "Lizelle's waiting for us with the other van!"

We heard their footsteps hurrying away. Adrian, Natalie and I then stood up.

"I think they're gone," Adrian said.

We cautiously stood to our feet, and I took a look around me. Smoke billowed from the cracked engine blocks of bullet riddled cars. The getaway van was engulfed in flames. Pedestrians were cowering behind whatever source of cover they had available. Some were lying on the ground, bleeding from either bullet wounds or cuts induced by flying glass shards. Police and fire sirens echoed everywhere. And my blood was boiling with rage. If O'Donnell was asking for a war, I was going to give him one. _Nobody_ shot at me and got away with it!

At that point, Natalie suddenly said, "Over there!"

I turned my head and saw the four robbers striding east on California Street towards the parking lot of a minimall, a couple of beauty and tattoo parlors and a Palmieri Pizza restaurant a half-block east of Presidio Boulevard.

"Let's go!" I said. "We can't let them get away with this!"

Natalie quickly dialed the police dispatcher on her speed dial.

"They're headed east on California on foot!" she said. "Send everything you've got!" She hung up, not even waiting to hear the dispatcher repeat back her words.

* * *

Pistols drawn, we sprinted down the north sidewalk towards the minimall. We arrived at the west entrance to the lot just as an unmarked unit roared into the lot and came to a stop, followed immediately by an SFPD black-and-white.

"They're going to get themselves killed!" I said.

Sure enough, O'Donnell and his men immediately opened fire on the unmarked unit, raking it with bullets. Adrian, Natalie and I saw two familiar faces jump out of the unmarked unit and begin shooting back: Lieutenant Disher and a fellow inspector, Inspector Jack Lansdale, both wielding their duty pistols. The two uniforms in the black-and-white scrambled out of their car through the driver's door and drew their pistols. O'Donnell and one of his men raised their submachine guns, and fired at the two detectives, sending them diving behind their car for cover. After a moment's lull, Disher popped up from behind the trunk and fired off two rounds at O'Donnell, both of which missed their marks and shattered car windows.

This was just as Adrian, Natalie and I reached the hood of the black-and-white and the two pinned down officers. O'Brien saw us coming and fired on us.

"Damn it!" Natalie said. She dove for cover behind the hood of the marked unit while Adrian and I took firing stances behind the hood of the car and fired a few rounds back at O'Brien. Just a few rounds were exchanged between the two of us, as it was then that my next clip ran out. Adrian and I now ducked down, using the engine block as a shield.

"And I have to run out of ammo right at a crucial moment!" I grumbled as I reloaded my pistol.

The two uniformed officers started to move, as if ready to fire.

"No clean shot," Adrian said to them.

Meanwhile, O'Donnell, Donoghue and Murdoch were engaging Lansdale and Disher's unit. Just as Adrian, Natalie and I finished inserting new clips into our guns, and as I finished racking the slide, I heard shots and a loud yell.

I looked over just in time to see two men fall to the ground, both of them clearly hit by gunfire: Disher and a Palmieri Pizza driver.

"Randy!" Lansdale said.

One of the uniformed officers crawled over to Disher to check on him. In my mind, I was thinking _"Please don't be dead, please don't be dead!"_ Sure enough, a number of crimson stains were beginning to blossom from two fresh new bullet holes in his shirt.

"No, no! No!" I said, looking at Disher's wounds as O'Brien fired another burst in our direction.

"Get them!" Disher struggled to say to the officer who was attending to him.

Douglas O'Donnell and his gang had just critically wounded another cop. Now, I get really, really angry whenever I saw a person get killed in front of me or die in front of me. Actually, take that back. I get very, very, very, very, very, VERY, very angry whenever someone is brazen enough to harm a cop who works with my dad. In my mind, that's a sin that is punishable by instant death. And I'm also very good at hiding that anger behind a very pleasant smile.

I looked back at Adrian, who gave me a quick nod. I tightly gripped my pistol and poked my head up from behind the hood of the black-and-white, looking for an opening.

"I got this," I said.

O'Donnell, Murdoch and O'Brien fired another suppressive volley our way with their submachine guns. The moment O'Donnell lowered his weapon, I jumped up on both feet, pistol in hand, and fired five rounds in his direction. Just as quickly, O'Donnell ducked behind a car. The bullets missed and hit the car's windows, shattering it. One man hunched down behind a shopping cart three feet behind me flinched and covered his ears. I heard a little boy and girl scream.

 _I'll get you, you little creep_ , I thought. A couple of kids hunkering on the ground next to me and behind whatever source of cover was conveniently available to them covered their ears. I fired my pistol again. _Bring it on, O'Donnell. What are you waiting for?!_

If you looked at me, you wouldn't even think I was angry at O'Donnell. To the contrary, you'd think I was enjoying firing my weapon a little too much.

That was when O'Donnell and his men raised their submachine guns and opened fire, spraying at us. Adrian and Natalie broke cover as well and fired back on the gang. Natalie had a look of controlled and very concentrated rage on her face. More bullets pounded the police car and multiple bullets went through the store windows behind us. And Detective Lansdale and the two uniform cops tending to Disher had frozen up in fear, having just seen one of their own get shot.

Adrian, Natalie and I fired until our weapons clicked empty, at which point we ducked down behind the marked unit to reload. By now, I wasn't sure just how many rounds O'Donnell and his men had fired on the police since they entered the firehouse, but I figured it had to be somewhere in the thousands.

As I stood up, I saw O'Donnell and his guys climbing into the back of a Chevrolet van parked two aisles over. Seeing the Davenport Gas & Electric logo on the back doors, I immediately recognized it as the van that we'd seen the gang load their loot into minutes earlier at the firehouse. The moment the last robber had climbed in, and I couldn't tell you which robber it was because he had his back to me, the van rocketed backwards out of its parking space. It came to a stop. A split second later, the driver shifted gears and floored the gas pedal. With smoke coming from its tires as they burned rubber, the van took off towards the street.

 _No one shoots at me and gets away with it!_ I thought. I raised my pistol and emptied it at the van as it plowed through and swiped an incoming police car that was just coming to a stop. The cruiser spun around, its front end torn up, and its siren died off. The van then made a hard left onto California and sped off, untouched by two more police cars that were just coming to a stop by the east entrance to the parking lot.

I slowly returned my pistol to its holster. _Don't think you're going to get away easily, O'Donnell_ , I thought. _We will find you and we will kill you_. The only other sound I could hear, besides the ringing of gunfire in my ears, was the ever persistent wail and blend of sirens, police department, ambulance, and fire engine alike, all over the area.

Natalie took a few moments to catch her breath before she stuck her pistol back in its holster. I took a chance to get a glance at her. She looked like she was sweating and almost out of breath. With all of that adrenaline being released from her body, it was a miracle she was even standing upright.

Remarkably composed, Natalie leaned into the patrol car and grabbed the on-board mike.

"12 Ingleside to dispatch, the suspects are headed eastbound on California," she said, "They are driving a Chevrolet Express van with Davenport Gas & Electric decals, license plate 4DSQ554."

I felt Adrian put his hand on my shoulder. I immediately turned to look into his eyes. We stared at each other for several seconds, as if we were enemies in a staredown. I suddenly noticed that my chest was heaving, filled with adrenaline from the intense gun battle, and with some new emotion that I shouldn't be feeling at this point. Clearly Adrian felt this same way, too. And then he pulled me in and kissed me hard on the mouth.

I clearly felt something. Like, I felt like it was a pretty bad time for my husband to be kissing me, as police officers, paramedics, and firefighters began pouring into the lot to render first aid to any wounded victims that they could find. At the same time, I was overly turned on by this much violence. Sure enough, I responded by pretty much attacking Adrian's mouth like I wanted to devour him whole.

"Kendra…." Adrian murmured as I began to plant my lips on his chin.

With some measure of self-control and awareness, Adrian caught my face and pulled it up so that we were facing eye-to-eye. I grinned at him.

"Adrian, we shouldn't be doing this," I said, "Not right now."

My gaze fell upon the bullet-riddled black-and-white unit and on the paramedics who were working to stabilize Disher.

"We'll pick up where we left off in the car when we're done here, Kendra," Adrian said, dryly, "Something tells me we're going to be here for a while."

* * *

 **A/N:** This entire robbery sequence is like a blend of multiple armed robberies from different movies. Parts of it are taken from the episode "Mr. Monk Can't See a Thing," the stock exchange robbery from _The Dark Knight Rises_ , and most notably, both robbery sequences in _Heat_ : the execution of the firefighters is similar to the execution of the guards in the armored car robbery, and the post-robbery shootout is like the bank robbery shootout. Liberties are taken to make sure, though, that it's entirely an original sequence.


	22. Urban Warfare

**One Hour Later** :

* * *

A bright sun and cloudless sky shined down upon what was probably the most gruesome scene of violence that the city of San Francisco had seen in the past week, on the heels of brutal crimes like the armored car robbery, the McClellan ambush, and the McCabe's shootout. The charred and twisted remains of a Chevrolet Express van sat in the middle of Presidio Boulevard. An unrecognizable corpse was still buckled into the driver's seat. Around it sat several partially deformed vehicles, with shattered windows and doorframes that had been raked with bullets. Buckets of shell casings littered the street. Besides these civilian vehicles, Presidio Boulevard between the firehouse and California Street was clogged with an assortment of emergency vehicles, including police cars, numerous ambulances, and at least two Medevac helicopters.

The interior of the firehouse was, for lack of a better word, ugly. The garage floor was covered with 14 corpses. McQuinn lay on the floor in a pool of blood, a few feet away from the bodies of six more firefighters who were lined up alongside the Hazmat unit, the side of which was covered in blood and bullet holes. Three more were lying faceup on the ground near a foldout table in the back. Not too far away from them were the bodies of a male firefighter and a female firefighter.

* * *

And I haven't emphasized it enough, but there was now blood everywhere in the firehouse garage. Not just dried dog's blood from the guard dog, but tons of human blood now, too. It was like someone had brought a couple paint buckets of blood and splashed them all over the floor of the firehouse garage. Unsurprisingly, not only were there lots of corpses, but there were also lots of law enforcement personnel. Multiple teams from the Crime Scene Investigations unit were on site taking pictures of the bodies and bagging many of the countless shell casings that littered the firehouse. A number of SFPD patrol officers and sergeants mingled among them, recording notes on their notepads.

"Should we notify Danielle?" Natalie said as we stood looking over Matthew McQuinn's lifeless body.

"No," Adrian said, "She'll find out soon enough. This story should be hitting the airwaves by now. By now, I'm sure every TV in this city is tuned to a news station."

Natalie emitted a small grunt of frustration. "I went those robbers dead more than anyone else here."

"Natalie, it's not your fault that O'Donnell chose to attack this firehouse," Adrian said, "We had no idea that this was where he was going to strike."

Natalie sighed. "Again, like I told you back at the apartment, this guy is just getting on my nerves."

"I don't think it's going to look pretty when Danielle gets here," I said, "I don't think she's going to take this much bloodshed very well. Just personal opinion."

"And a reasonable one, Kendra," Adrian replied, "Then again, O'Brien did murder her sister, sooo…."

I sighed. "Yeah. Yeah. I get the picture. We've got work to do here."

A forensic tech was picking up shell casings near McQuinn's body.

"What type of shells are you finding, Rebecca?" Adrian asked the forensic technician.

"I got a lot of 9mm shells," Rebecca shrugged, "Also a lot of 5.56mm casings. Must have been a pretty heavy battle in here."

"Of course it was," Adrian said to me and Natalie, "We know, because we were here and were participants."

For a man who was attractive enough that someone like Danielle would throw herself at him for sex, McQuinn wasn't anything close to being a womanizer, now that O'Donnell had delivered him two pistol rounds to his chest, one more to his neck, and a very bloody coup de grace to his forehead, plus further bleeding from the blow to his head where he'd been pistol-whipped. Blood had trickled from his neck and head and pooled around his body. He'd also left a long trail of blood as he tried to crawl after being shot in the chest and neck.

The firefighters that had been submachine gunned by O'Brien and Murdoch looked just as bad, if not worse, than McQuinn. Here's an example: on the firefighter who'd drawn a gun, one bullet had basically blown off part of his elbow, such that I could see the bone joint. There were also bullet holes in his chest, neck, head, shoulder, and legs, resulting in much more extensive bleeding. His mouth was permanently frozen wide-open in shock and surprise.

Adrian, Natalie and I took a closer look at this body.

"Yuck," Natalie said, "I think McQuinn got it better than this one."

"At least this guy tried to fight back," Adrian gestured to the firefighter.

"What would a firefighter be doing with a gun like that?" Natalie asked.

"Maybe in case he needs to signal to colleagues for help during a fire," Adrian said. "It's a long stretch, but guns do make a loud noise that's typically easily identifiable."

"Don't they have PASS devices for that purpose?" I said.

"No, Kendra, I think this one carries his gun around for personal use," Adrian said, "Or he lives in our crime-ridden Tenderloin district."

"I'm still not ever planning on staying there for whatever reason," I said.

We walked over to the coroner, who was analyzing the firefighter farthest away from the rescue truck in the group that was executed in cold blood. This was the one O'Donnell had simply shot once in the face at point blank range. There was a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead and his entire head and his hair was matted with blood.

"Jesus," Natalie said.

"Well, look on the bright side, it was probably the least painful of these three," Adrian said.

"I really don't get it," Natalie said, "What's O'Donnell trying to accomplish by doing this? Shooting people over firefighting gear?"

"I don't know, Natalie," Adrian replied, "All I can say, based on what just happened, is that these guys are ruthless terrorists who won't let anyone or anything get in the way of their goals."

"Terrorists," I said, letting that word get in my head, "Great. For my birthday, we get to fight terrorists."

"And they have left no trace evidence to let us plant him solidly here," Adrian said. "They wore gloves."

"That's not helpful," I said.

Adrian, Natalie and I slowly walked back in the direction of McQuinn's body and the bodies of the two henchmen we'd managed to kill during the gun battle.

"The only think I can figure out so far is what O'Donnell and his minions might be planning," Adrian said, "And to be honest, we can't tell anyone about it. I don't think it's even safe to tell your dad, Kendra."

"Why can't we tell him?" I asked.

"Lower your voice, Kendra," Adrian said.

"Okay," I said in a low whisper.

"O'Donnell could be trying to target a politician," Adrian whispered to us. "Maybe the mayor, possibly even the president himself."

I gasped in shock. "The president….of the United States?!" I whispered.

"Yeah, possibly," Adrian said, "Don't you remember? O'Donnell said, 'Now Underwood's gonna be stuck here for a while' after he'd executed those firefighters." He gestured towards the men who'd been lined up alongside the truck.

"So, he stages this attack to keep the president in town and give himself more opportunities to plan an assassination?" Natalie said. "Adrian, if this guy's plotting an assassination, we have to notify the Secret Service."

"Not yet, Natalie," Adrian said, "That's just one theory. Here's another one that I think is more plausible: He was just quipping that the president will be stuck in town for about a week."

"How do you figure?"

"Well I reckon the President is going to have to extend his stay in the Bay Area for a while due to the shooting and all the attention that's getting," Adrian grimaced, "Like, at least until next Saturday or something. And I'm betting ole Frank's probably also going to be visiting the families of the shooting victims. That'll be on the news later today." He sighed. "What am I talking about? Let's process this crime scene, then we can discuss potential theories about what O'Donnell's up to."

Adrian, Natalie and I walked back to the body of the Japanese looking henchman that I'd shot to begin the shootout, the one I'd referred to as Watanabe during the battle proper. A few forensics techs, including Rebecca, were looking over him.

"Got a name, Rebecca?" Adrian asked.

"Yeah," Rebecca said, "Found his wallet in his pants pocket. His name's Tadashi Hamada, 26 years old."

"Hmm," Adrian said. "Interesting."

He held up his hands and began walking around Hamada's fallen body, looking for clues.

"Anything?" I asked.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "This guy looks like a bombmaker and a photographer."

"How do you figure?" Natalie asked.

"He's got a blue discoloration on his fingertips," Adrian said, "That's developer fluid. I've seen that in other photographers, especially those who still utilize film in this digital age."

I looked. Sure enough, he had what looked like hints of blue in his fingertips, and it sure didn't look like nail polish. I instinctively looked at the red nail polish I'd applied to my fingernails that morning to make sure I wasn't seeing anything differently.

"Hmm," I said, "What makes you think he's a bombmaker?"

"Well look at this guy's skin," Adrian said, "These burns right here on the side of his face. He's clearly had a few accidents in his line of work. Accidental spills or explosions. Occupational hazard, you might say."

Natalie and I looked at Hamada's face. Sure enough, on a closer look, we could see the scars.

"Can't argue with you on that," Natalie said.

"Yeah, me neither," I said.

"If this guy's a bombmaker," Adrian said, "There's a chance that we've just taken out O'Donnell's main explosives supplier. And if he's a photographer, he might have been involved in casing this place prior to the hit. But if that's the case, he probably didn't attack the dog."

"How are we sure of this?" I asked.

"The crime scene photos from the dog's attack show that Sparky was shot in the neck with the bullet entering upwards, indicating that the attacker was on the ground when the gun was fired," Adrian said, "That seems to tell me that there was a struggle between Sparky and whoever shot him."

"What are you getting at?" Natalie asked.

"If he was the one who shot Sparky, I'd imagine he might have claw marks all over his face. They wouldn't be obvious, but there would be scars and they would be pretty fresh. This guy's got scars, but they're from chemical burns, not from a dog's paws scratching it."

"Ah," Natalie said, leaning over Hamada's body to look at the face, "I see it now."

"Any ID on the other guy?" I asked, gesturing to the other henchman that we'd killed during the battle.

"Nope, no ID," Rebecca replied, "He's got gang markings on his neck, though."

"That might help us," Adrian said, "Ladies? Let's take a look at the truck."

* * *

We walked across to Light Rescues Unit 9, the unit that the gang had raided for loot. A few of the men from the bomb squad were analyzing the spot where the crew had planted their charges to blast open the back doors. They did not have the protective suits they normally wore when in the process of bomb disposal, but instead were wearing ordinary cop uniforms with the words "BOMB SQUAD" and their last name written on the back.

"What are you guys thinking?" Adrian asked the squad technicians, who were taking samples and metal fragments.

The lead tech, Chambers, turned. He grimaced.

"I'm thinking nitroglycerin," he said, "Planted in a shape charge. Probably about two ounces."

"Professionals," Adrian said, "Of course."

"Where could one acquire that legitimately?" Natalie asked.

Chambers shrugged. "I'd suggest a construction equipment company."

Adrian turned to Natalie. "Make a mental note, Natalie. Ask Danielle to start checking if any large quantities of explosives have been stolen recently."

"Got it," Natalie said.

Two of the firefighters who had been hiding during the robbery were inside the truck when Adrian, Natalie and I climbed in.

"This is kind of cramped," I said. The rescue truck interior was barely wider than I was.

"Well, it's a fire truck, Kendra. What were you expecting?" Adrian said, as he made his way down.

The interior itself was long and narrow. On either side of the narrow walkway were racks that I figured were used to store firefighting gear. Adrian's attention was drawn to the two firefighters inside doing the inventory.

"Hi, excuse me," he said, "Any idea on how much they got away with?"

"Everything inside this vehicle," one of the firefighters said, "That's most obvious."

"What kinds of stuff do you keep in this unit?" Adrian asked.

"Heavy rescue equipment," Partridge said. "Much of the same stuff that we have on Rescue 3. Hacksaws, a couple Jaws of Life units, cutters, axes, extinguishers, etc."

"What about generic firefight gear?" Natalie asked.

"Oh, yes, we've got oxygen tanks, firefighter coats and helmets, all that stuff," the firefighter responded, "All of it gone now."

"Why are O'Donnell and his men stealing firefighting gear?" I asked Natalie and Adrian.

"I have no idea," Natalie said, "It's really strange, though. That much bloodshed for firefighting gear? What a world we live in."

"Maybe they have plans to use the disguises for a future robbery," Adrian said. Natalie and I gave him the odd look. "No, seriously, that's the best use I could see for firefighting gear. When firefighters have their helmets and gas masks on, it's almost impossible to tell two guys apart. That's why they all have to have their name stenciled on the back of their gear, just so that they know who is who. And likewise, they all have different colored helmets so that they can tell each other's ranks apart."

"Do I really want to believe that a group of men who are armed with automatic weapons would be robbing a firehouse just to do that?" I asked.

"This is San Francisco, Kendra. Anything is possible. I mean, O'Donnell and his gang are so ruthless I can imagine them committing any countless number of atrocities."

That was when a group of three uniformed cops showed up.

"Detectives, you got to see this," one of them asked.

"What is it?" Adrian asked.

"We've got more bodies in the parking lot out back," he answered.

* * *

The officers led Adrian, Natalie and me through the back entrance to the small employee parking lot wedged between the firehouse and Bush Street on the south side of the building. A number of CSI techs were collecting bullet casings and taking photos of footprints left in a big pool of blood that had come from each of the bodies.

There were five bodies in the parking lot. There was one guy who looked like he was in his early fifties, who was lying on his stomach right up near the wall, about fifteen feet away from the other bodies. His SFFD t-shirt was soaked with blood, with wounds around what I believed to be his back, his shoulder, and his left leg. There was also a trail of blood that extended back from his body for about six feet. There were four other firefighters' bodies lying on the ground near the pickup truck, all of whom were covered in bloody bullet wounds. The pickup truck and the cars immediately adjacent to it were also covered with bullet holes.

"Sweet Jesus," Natalie said.

"What happened here?" I asked to myself. It was rhetorical, 'cause I knew that it was O'Donnell's gang killing these firefighters that must have been the source of the gunshots we'd heard before O'Donnell entered the garage.

Adrian held up his hands in front of him and began doing his Zen thing.

"Attackers really took this personally," he said, analyzing the body of the elderly firefighter who'd fallen away from the other four firefighters. Adrian did two circles around the body as he searched for clues. Natalie and I leaned down and took a look.

"That's a bullet wound in his leg," I said, pointing.

"Yeah, that is," Adrian said, "I think that this guy was probably the last of the three men here to get iced."

"How do you know?" Natalie asked.

"Look at the pattern of the bullet wounds," Adrian said, "Right shoulder, left leg, and one to the heart from the back."

"What are you getting at?"

"I think it was O'Brien and/or Donoghue that killed that group of firefighters over there," Adrian said, gesturing to the bodies by the bullet-raked pickup truck, "While O'Donnell did this one guy right here."

Natalie and I glanced at the pickup truck, then back at the elderly firefighter.

"How are we so sure of this, Adrian?" Natalie asked.

"From the blood trails," Adrian said, matter-of-factly, "and the bullet patterns. See, look how many bullets have hit that truck."

I took another look at the truck. I did a count of how many visible bullet holes I could see in the hood and on the windshield. "Thirty one," I said. "Plus a few extra for each and every last one of those Red Shirts right there." I laughed.

"Funny, Kendra," Adrian said, forcing a smile, "Ladies, during the attack, O'Donnell was using his pistol as his primary gun. O'Brien and Donoghue were using their MP5Ks as their primary firearms. So I'm thinking, uh, the three walked in here, posing as electrical technicians. I imagine that they may have been stopped and asked to show identification. Then again, maybe not. Whatever happened, O'Brien and Donoghue pull their MP5Ks and open fire on that group."

He gestured to the pickup truck.

"The extra bullet hits are collateral damage," Adrian said.

"What about this guy right here?" I asked, gesturing back to the body of the elderly firefighter that we were standing over.

"O'Donnell raised his pistol and shot him in the shoulder," Adrian said. "But I don't think that killed him. The bullet spun him around. He tried to flee towards the garage to warn anyone there that the gunmen were on their way. O'Donnell shot him in the back. But this firefighter was still not yet dead. He tried to crawl away, and subsequently, he was shot in the back at point-blank range."

I could actually picture the events that happened going through my head as Adrian described them. To be honest, it was kinda graphic. I could imagine this firefighter, in his dying moments, thinking about the fact that he wasn't going to make it out of this situation alive. It's really creepy when you stop to think about it. I know I was thinking about that.

"We know he tried to crawl away because of this blood trail," Adrian said, "It's like the one McQuinn left behind back in the garage."

* * *

That was when another uniform showed up.

"Detectives, there's this woman back by the barricades, she's asking to see you," he said.

"Who?" I asked.

"Young girl, mid-twenties, long black hair," the officer replied.

Adrian, Natalie and I looked at each other. We were all thinking the same thing. _Danielle has just shown up. We're gonna have to break some really bad news to her._

"Send her over, Peters," Adrian said.

Officer Peters walked back towards the street. A minute later, he returned with Danielle Hossack. Danielle had her hair parted on both sides of her head similarly to my hair. She was sporting an ordinary red t-shirt and blue jeans. And she was wearing a pair of sunglasses. She also had a pretty weary look on her face, which I couldn't blame her for having, considering how much death and destruction had just happened.

"Oh my gosh," she said, covering her mouth in shock.

"Hey, Danielle," Adrian said.

"I assume you just heard what happened?" I asked.

"Good deduction, Kendra," Danielle said. She took a deep breath and composed herself. "Is Matthew all right?"

I shook my head. "Matthew's dead."

Danielle's face turned pale.

"Sweet Jesus," she said. Danielle's cheeks turned pink. She looked like she was about to vomit or explode with rage.

"We're really sorry, Danielle," Adrian said.

Danielle took a deep breath.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Right now, all we know is that a gang of eight people led by Douglas O'Donnell attacked this firehouse, and executed a bunch of firefighters in cold blood," Adrian said, "They were all disguised as electricians and they were wearing sunglasses and hard hats to hide their identities."

"Why?"

"We're not entirely sure yet," Natalie said, "So far, our best guess is this was an armed robbery."

"Jesus!" Danielle said. She took a deep breath. "Where's O'Donnell?"

"O'Donnell got away," I said, "along with three other members of his crew and one of his getaway drivers. We killed two of his men and his other driver."

Danielle groaned. She sounded frustrated with this new development. "Are you doing anything to find him?"

"Danielle, this happened, like, an hour ago," Adrian replied, "It takes time to process a crime scene this magnitude. It's going to be a while before we've finished processing every bullet casing and fingerprint around here."

"Well make them work faster," Danielle said.

"I think it might be best if we walk you through this, Danielle," Adrian said.

"OK," Danielle said.

* * *

We led Danielle around and entered the firehouse through the same entrance O'Donnell had entered through. It looked to me as if Danielle had never seen this much death, especially in a single room. She looked a bit out of place amongst hardened law enforcement officers. She looked very awkward, like she didn't know how to act. This was especially clear to me once we got to the body of the female firefighter that had gotten her throat cut by O'Brien.

"Remind me again, what was your relationship with McQuinn like?" Adrian asked. "Boyfriend? Lover?"

"Occasional lover," Danielle said.

"Thank you," Adrian said. Danielle still didn't look easy.

"You all right?" Natalie asked.

"Do I look all right? Looking at dead bodies in person is not in my line of work, Miss Teeger!" Danielle replied.

"Danielle!" Adrian put his hand on Danielle's shoulder. "Danielle, I know you're upset and I know you're not comfortable being here, but I need you on the top of your game. It's the only way we're going to take down O'Donnell." Danielle gave him a look that was about halfway between a death glare and a stare of confusion. "Look, just act as if the blood was just spilled corn syrup with red food coloring. Like the stuff they use to imitate gunshot and knife wounds in movies. That's how Natalie, Kendra and I look at it."

That seemed to get Danielle to relax.

"All right," she said, exhaling, "All right, all right, all right. I'll try to pretend that this blood is not real. Just….walk me through what happened."

Adrian took his hand off Danielle's shoulder.

"OK, to recap, we arrive around nine o'clock to speak to your occasional lover. Shortly after we arrive, the, uh, the alarm goes off and a couple of the firefighting crews were called away to a working structure fire about six or seven blocks east of here."

"Yeah, I saw the smoke from that while I was driving over here," Danielle said, "It's, like, four five stories tall. So, crew goes away. What do you and Matthew talk about?"

"Well, this is where it gets interesting," Adrian said, "He showed us the cutter that you said he reported was stolen by Sparky's killer."

"Why is it interesting?"

"Remember Martha Jansen, that woman who was mauled Friday morning by an alligator on Baker Beach?" I asked. "Well, it's our belief that the thief probably stole the cutter, attached a set of alligator jaws to it, and used it to maul her to death in her own bathtub."

Danielle shook her head in disbelief.

"So what happened next?" Danielle asked.

"We're interrupted by the sound of shots being fired," Adrian said, "And they're coming from the back."

"Those must be the bodies outside in that little lot?" Danielle asked.

"Yep," Natalie said, "They were."

"A few moments later, Douglas O'Donnell enters from there," I said, pointing to the SFFD SUV parked in the back, "O'Donnell's got his new Beretta pistol out. With him are Dennis Donoghue and Edward O'Brien. Donoghue and O'Brien have submachine guns, and O'Brien also has this sharp knife in his left hand."

"They step up to these two firefighters," Adrian said, pointing to the female firefighter's body and that of the guy she was talking to when she was killed, "And O'Brien cuts this girl's throat."

"He cut her," Danielle said.

"I'll reenact it for you," Adrian said, "Do you mind, Kendra?"

"Not at all," I said.

Adrian and Natalie stepped back behind me. I stood behind the girl's body, while Danielle stood on the other side of the corpses.

"Natalie, you'll be O'Donnell, I'll be O'Brien," Adrian whispered to her. He turned to Danielle.

"As I was saying," he said, "He comes up from behind her and slits her throat."

"So how did things start?" Danielle asked.

"Watch," Adrian said, "Kendra, this might hurt."

Adrian and Natalie began to step forward towards me. Natalie had her left hand in a finger gun gesture, since that was the hand O'Donnell held his pistol in. Adrian grabbed me by the hair with his right hand very hard and pulled my head back. It felt more sensual than I was expecting. He then ran his left finger across my exposed throat, and in doing so also kissed me on the side of my neck.

"The actual scene did not have this," I said, unable to suppress a smile. Adrian then mimed kneeing me in the back, like O'Brien had done. While that happened, Natalie gestured with her finger towards the body of the first firefighter that O'Donnell had shot inside the garage.

"O'Brien slits the girl's throat, then O'Donnell shot this man here," Adrian continued.

"Bang," Natalie said, "one in the head." Adrian then mimed drawing a submachine gun, and pointed to the bodies of the firefighters that had been sitting at the card table. "These three were promptly killed by O'Brien and Donoghue."

"They then subdued everyone in the garage."

"Did they see you?" Danielle asked.

"No, we took cover behind this truck here," Adrian said, pointing to the spot behind Rescue Squad 3 where we'd taken cover during the robbery.

"And you didn't try to shoot back?" Danielle asked.

"We were outnumbered," Natalie said, "Six to three."

Adrian, Natalie and I led Danielle over to the bodies of the two robbers we'd killed.

"These two men and Bobby Murdoch entered the garage from the street," Adrian said.

"Do they have names?" Danielle asked.

"We identified this guy here," Adrian said, pointing to Hamada's body, "Name's Tadashi Hamada. We think that he might have worked for O'Donnell as a supplier of bombmaking materials."

"Who's the other guy?" Danielle pointed to the Unsub gunman.

"We don't know," I said, "He's got no ID on him. But he's got some tattoos on him that suggest possible gang affiliations."

"We're running the prints now, and the DNA," Adrian added, "That might lead somewhere, but it will take some time. At least three to four days minimum is the norm. Possibly longer considering how much evidence is being logged in today."

Adrian, Natalie and I led Danielle over to the bodies of the group of firemen to be executed in cold blood.

"So, O'Donnell and crew take these guys hostage," Natalie said, gesturing along the row of bodies.

Danielle looked at the bodies with disbelief. She rubbed her face in disbelief.

"At this same time, two vans pull into the garage and stop right about there," I said, pointing to the bullet-riddled police cruiser that the getaway van had shoved out of the way during their first attempt to flee.

"Anything on them?" Danielle asked. "The vans, that is?"

"Chevrolet Express vans," Adrian said, "Both of them have Davenport Gas & Electric logos on them."

"Electricians?" Danielle said.

"Yeah," Adrian continued, "The electric company in question reported about a dozen or so of their vans were stolen from a work base in Balboa Park yesterday."

"So far, we believe that the vans, and the uniforms, that the crew used in this robbery, were stolen in that theft," Natalie said.

"What happens next?" Danielle asked.

"O'Donnell and O'Brien hold this group captive," Adrian said, "While that's happening, the other crew members break into that truck there." He pointed to Light Rescues Unit 9.

"What did they get away with?" Danielle asked.

I sighed. "A lot of firefighting gear, to the best of our knowledge. Coats, jumpsuit pants, helmets, oxygen tanks, gas masks, some axes, and other tools. They also apparently stole a bunch of supplies that could be utilized to make explosives. But once they finish loading the stuff into their van, that's when things turned ugly."

"O'Donnell immediately aims his pistol at this one's face," Natalie said, pointing to the firefighter farthest away from Light Rescues Unit 9, "And just straight-up shoots him in the face, point-blank. Boom." She mimed a finger gun and used her thumb to mime the trigger.

"Then this guy tried to draw a pistol," Adrian said, pointing to the next firefighter over, "and he and all these guys are promptly cut down O'Brien and Murdoch with MP5Ks. They got it everywhere - in the arm, the mouth, the face, the neck, the shoulder, the chest, hell, even the legs and stomach."

"Eww!" Danielle said, disgusted.

"Yeah, picture the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, only bloodier," I said.

"Where's Matt?" Danielle asked.

"He was right about here," Adrian said, pointing to the cab door of the Hazmat truck.

"O'Donnell then turned and trained his pistol on McQuinn," I said, "After a few moments' hesitation, he shoots him three times – two in the chest, and one in the neck."

"Oh my God!" Danielle said.

"And he wasn't killed right away either," Natalie said, "As you can see from this trail of blood, he crawled away."

"Oh my….God!" Danielle exclaimed. Her eyes followed the trail of blood that led over to McQuinn's body.

"Indeed," Natalie said.

"At any rate," Adrian picked up, "O'Donnell walks over to him. From what we could tell, Matt apparently tried to plea for his life. Impressive, I might say, considering he was bleeding out the side of his neck and couldn't speak from all the blood loss. But alas, O'Donnell is a ruthless man, and he just shot him in the head, point-blank. A straightforward, execution-style murder, in my book."

"And you didn't bother to try to stop him?" Danielle asked.

"We'd have risked getting shot if we did," Natalie said. "But, it was after Matt was finished off that we attacked. Kendra, you were the one who instigated it."

"I jumped out and I shot Hamada there," I said, pointing to Hamada's body.

"The first van, which has the loot, drives off, during this," Natalie said.

"So we engaged O'Donnell's men in an intense gunfight," Adrian said, "I mean, look at all the bullet holes on each of the trucks here."

Danielle looked around.

"We managed to also off the unidentified suspect near the end of this gun battle," I threw in.

"Good for you," Danielle said.

"That's when the first squad car arrived," Adrian said, "Subsequently, the rank-and-file of the SFPD are involved."

"Are you going to recap me about the events of the shootout?" Danielle asked.

"No, but I'll just tell you the important things," Adrian said, "Like, how we shot out the tires on the van that the remaining gang members tried to flee in."

"Oh, so you did try to stop them," Danielle said, "Wonderful."

"And quite a fair number of cops were shot during the battle," I said, "Including a police lieutenant that works for my dad."

"Is he coming here?" Danielle asked.

"Probably," I said, "I don't know what's tying him up."

"You might call him, Kendra, and see where he is," Adrian said, "Y'know, so we can start organizing a manhunt for O'Donnell."

I stepped over to him and kissed him. "That sounds like a good idea, Adrian."

"Is there anything I can do here?" Danielle asked. "Because, look, Mr. Monk, I appreciate that you taught me that trick of 'imagine that the blood is fake,' but I really want to be somewhere else."

"No, Danielle, I think you're free to go," Adrian said. Then he straightened up. "Actually, there's one thing I could ask you to do for us today."

"What is that?" she asked.

"Since we don't know if the money from the armored car robbery was fenced or laundered, I've got this feeling that the money may have been wired into offshore bank accounts," Adrian said, "I was wondering, could you go down to O'Donnell's office and see if there's any evidence of how he's paying his fellow conspirators?"

Danielle forced a small smile. "Sure, I can do that."

"Don't worry about getting caught snooping," Adrian said, "I'm betting O'Donnell and the gang have probably gone underground, or at this point in time are still busy ditching the vans and the clothes they wore."

"I got it," Danielle replied. "Intertect's got good resources and I'm going to put every last one of them to use."

* * *

And with that, Danielle began briskly walking away, back towards the police barricades at Bush Street, plus the satellite trucks and police vehicles parked behind it. As we watched an officer lift up the barricade to let her through, Adrian suddenly said, "Natalie, Kendra?"

"Yes, Adrian?" Natalie asked.

"The gang members' clothes faintly smelled of smoke," he said.

"So?" I asked.

"They must have been involved in a fire recently," Adrian replied, "Like the one that some of the engines from this firehouse were called away to at the time of the shooting here."

"What are you getting at?" Natalie said.

"What I'm getting at, Natalie, is, what if this is all a distraction?" Adrian asked. "What if he set that house fire and then committed the shooting to divert police resources?"

"Very cunning, I'd say," Natalie said.

I decided it was time to call my dad, so I took out my cell phone and did just that.

"I can sense you three are alive and well," my dad said when he answered.

"Yes, dad, the three of us are," I said. "You obviously heard about what happened."

"Every radio station and news station is covering this breaking story, Kendra," my dad said.

"Why aren't you at the firehouse?" I said.

"I'm working another case, about six blocks from your location," my dad said, "Remember the McClellans? The couple you saved from an ambush in North Beach last Thursday?"

"Yeah, what about 'em?"

"Well, their house just burned down and we found two bodies inside, which we're thinking are theirs," my dad said, "Something tells me this is a murder, and I need your input."

I gasped. "Oh my…god! Yeah, yeah-yeah-yep, abs—absolutely, we'll be there ASAP."

I hung up. I smiled at Adrian and Natalie, although internally, I was fuming knowing just exactly what O'Donnell had just done.

"Adrian, Natalie, I think my dad just caught us a nice juicy new lead," I said.

"What's this lead?"

"You're gonna like it…."


	23. The McClellans Are Now the McDeadens

I'd managed to maintain my composure and even my cheerful attitude while we were still in the presence of other cops and detectives at the firehouse. It made me look like I was standing strong. But, the moment we got back in our car and pulled away from the crime scene to head to the McClellan house, it more or less disappeared.

"You all right, Kendra?" Adrian asked. I was rubbing my hands across my face as my true feelings began bubbling on the surface: a mixture of exhaustion, a little bit of emotional and mental stress, and also a nice dose of anger.

I shook my head vigorously.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

I shook my head again. "There's no amount of kissing that can make me feel better, Adrian," I said, "Trust me, none will do."

"We make out at least four times a day," Adrian said, "So far, I've kissed you twice."

"This is so much different from a normal day," I said.

"We'll get O'Donnell, Kendra, I promise you," Adrian said, "He's not going to get away with this."

"What if he does?" I asked. "How do you think I'll feel, then?"

"A lot worse, probably," Adrian said. "Look, Kendra, be grateful that O'Donnell's not like those spree shooters that make the news every couple of months."

I looked at him and chuckled. "Yeah. He's definitely nowhere as crazy as James Holmes. But he's more ruthless than him."

"He's definitely not as ruthless as those guys from Paris last year," Natalie said. It actually was kinda funny comparing Douglas O'Donnell to the terrorists who had carried out a series of coordinated attacks in six locations throughout Paris the previous November, killing an estimated 127 people. Thinking about those attacks made me think about just how many people had died in this past week thanks to O'Donnell.

"Speaking of Paris," I said, "Maybe we should do an official body tally of how many people have died because of O'Donnell's crimes up to this point today?"

"That should be very simple," Adrian said. He held up his fingers as he counted. "All right, uh, first we got Danielle's sister Denise and her boyfriend Luke Reordan. That's the first two victims. Um, adding on the three guards from the armored car is five. Adding on accomplices Melissa Carney and Martha Jansen brings us up to seven."

"Are we counting henchmen that we, personally, killed?" Natalie asked.

"Yes," Adrian said, "So, with Thursday's ambush in North Beach, there would be one-two," he counted on his fingers, "nine victims, with the driver, the shotgun-riding bodyguard, the four men that O'Donnell executed in that alleyway and the three men that we shot by the limo. So that's 16 now."

"Let's not forget David Ellison," I added in.

"That brings us up to 17," Adrian said, "Then there's the five men who attacked us in Martha's apartment. That's 22. In yesterday's attack at McCabe's, we took out eight gunmen, so if you asked me a few hours ago what the body count is, it would be thirty people."

"But now the McClellan couple is dead, presumably murdered, and O'Donnell's crew just massacred a bunch of firefighters," Natalie replied.

"So this morning alone, 23 people have been killed," Adrian said, "That's counting the firefighters, Tadashi Hamada and that unsub gunman, the driver of the first van, who hasn't yet been identified, oh and that pizza delivery driver in the parking lot. He was killed, too."

Natalie stayed quiet, focusing on the road ahead of her.

"So….you mean, as many people were killed this morning in O'Donnell's attacks as have been killed in the last week," Natalie finally said.

"Pretty much," Adrian said. "The body count so far, is 53 people." That was when he noticed the police cars and crime scene tape up ahead. "Ah, and I see we've made it."

* * *

The house that had just been torched sat on the northeast corner of Pine Street and Pierce Street. The entire first floor of the house was charred and gutted, the windows broken and rimmed by black soot where flames had licked out. The property and the streets adjacent to it were cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. Several firefighters were picking through the rubble while others were hosing things down.

The smell of smoke was still heavy in the air, the street and the gutters inundated with soot-blackened water, and the storm drains clogged with burnt debris. There were an assortment of fire engines, a couple of SFPD black-and-whites, an SFFD sedan, and an unmarked Ford Taurus Police Interceptor, parked out in front of the house. Among the fire engines parked nearest to the house were Engine 10 and Truck 10. I had to figure that my dad must have just had to deal with the burden of telling the firefighters on the crews for both trucks about the shooting that had just happened back at their base.

There were neighbors out on their porches or milling on the sidewalks, looking at the house and talking animatedly among themselves. There's nothing like a fire to bring a community together, or a mass shooting for that matter. At least, I was pretty sure that everyone in the neighborhood was aware of the shooting.

Adrian, Natalie and I parked our car with the rest of the police vehicles and climbed out.

"Well, O'Donnell really brought down the place," Natalie said dryly, observing the house.

"Can't argue with you on that" Adrian said, "Let's just see if there's any evidence of foul play, and assume that it's a murder unless there's evidence that says otherwise."

We approached the police officer manning the crime scene tape.

"Hey, Cowan," Adrian said, "How you holding up?"

"I'm doing good, Monk," Officer Cowan said, "At least I'm not over at that firehouse looking at stiffs that have more lead than flesh in them."

"Haha," Natalie said, "You're lucky."

"My dad's here, right?" I asked. "That is his patrol unit over there."

"Yes, Miss Davenport, he is," Officer Cowan replied, "He's inside, in the living room, or what's left of it."

"Thank you," I said.

* * *

The living room looked like a scorched version of its former self, with charred furniture and a melted plasma TV still in their original places. The fire had been already extinguished to the point that it was safe for police officers and inspectors to enter the house without needing protective gear. In the living room, an African-American man in a bright blue San Francisco Fire Department windbreaker, with the words "ARSON INVESTIGATION UNIT" printed on the back in big yellow letters, was examining the rubble in the far corner near a window that looked out on Pierce Street. There were two charred corpses lying on top of what was left of the couch, now reduced to a twisted pile of springs and ashes. My dad was also standing there, taking notes. He was wearing a nice Italian suit with tie and biting on his lip nervously.

"Hey dad," I said. My dad's face brightened when he saw me.

"Hey, the birthday girl's here!" he said. "Come here, my little princess!"

I stepped over to him and he gave me a very big hug. After a long morning that had included a violent shootout and lots of bloody carnage, I thought getting a hug from my dad was really comforting and warming.

"Thank god you're okay," my dad said when he let go of me.

"Well, the three of us are all right," I said, gesturing to Natalie and Adrian, "We don't have a single scratch on us."

"That's good to know," my dad said.

"So Kendra tells me that these are the bodies of the couple we saved when the vehicular ambush in North Beach the other day," Adrian said.

"I didn't say they were," my dad said, "I said that they _might be_ the McClellans."

" _Might be_?" I said. "What does that even mean?"

"The teeth do this thing where they combust like popcorn when they heat up," my dad said, "Makes identifying the bodies via dental records useless."

"O'Donnell, you magnificent bastard," I said, tugging on the Trafalgar tour jacket I was holding on my left arm. "So, is this an accident or murder?"

"Supposedly," my dad said, gesturing to the arson investigator, "Polanski over there is saying that this is an accidental death. However, in light of the shooting over on Presidio, and Thursday's shooting in North Beach, we have to assume that this might be arson. I'm just waiting for him to give us his final report so we can determine if Robbery-Homicide has legal standing to take over this investigation and add it on to the O'Donnell case."

"Give us the rundown," Adrian said, wanting to get to the point.

"Well, as you can see, it looks like these two were having a morning romp on the couch," my dad said, "That's a euphemism for sex, by the way. They were probably smoking cigarettes while they were doing so."

I looked at the bodies again. Sure enough, they looked like they were positioned directly on top of each other and the bottom one seemed to be using its raised legs to hold the top one in place.

"Sex and smoking always go hand in hand," Adrian said. "No, really, Natalie, Kendra, they do. How many movies have you seen where two lovers are lying in bed, post-coitus, lighting one up?"

"Enough that I've lost count," I said. I smiled at Adrian. "So how did the fire start, dad?"

"There was a big stack of newspapers right here," my dad said, gesturing to a pile of charred paper on the floor near the end of the couch where the charred heads were positioned, "One of them flicked a cigarette, I don't know which, and it hit the newspapers. The fire spread from there, gradually engulfing everything in the room, from the bed, to the curtains, the TV, you name it. This fire was practically just waiting to happen."

Adrian made his way around the mostly intact coffee table, holding up his hands as he analyzed the two bodies.

"Hmm, I don't think agree with that story," Adrian said, "To recap: McClellan couple, who we just saved from an attempted shooting three days ago, were having sex when one of them dropped a lit cigarette onto a pile of newspapers, setting them on fire, and eventually engulfing the rest of the room."

"That's what Polanski thinks," my dad said, "In my opinion, it's not a coincidence that these two events happened involving the same people, not to mention what you guys just saw at the firehouse. Unless you have an alternate explanation as to what happened."

Now that I'd heard it from Adrian's mouth and from my dad's, the facts of the story that the arson investigator was following didn't seem to add up.

"So while they're being burned alive, they're still going down on each other? They're so caught up in coitus that they don't think to maybe withdraw from the house?" I giggled a bit as I said that. "They have the worst priorities in the world."

"Some people have different priorities from us," Natalie replied, dryly.

"They must," I said.

"Natalie, can you pass me a latex glove, please?" Adrian asked.

"Sure thing, boss," Natalie said. Natalie rummaged in her purse and pulled out a pair of gloves. We watched as Adrian slipped them on. He then leaned over and slipped his hand into the mouth of the bottom corpse. He was moving his hand as if poking around for something.

"What are you doing, Adrian?" Natalie asked.

"I'm checking for soot," Adrian said. A moment later, he pulled his hand out. "There's no soot in this one's mouth."

"That's what I noticed that made me feel suspicious," my dad said.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"A lack of soot generally indicates in my book that the couple here was probably already dead when the fire started," Adrian replied, "If they were still breathing when the fire started, there'd be a bunch of smoke particles lining the insides of their mouths." His gaze then fell on something else. I saw Adrian take out his tweezers from his jacket and lift something out from behind the head of the corpse whose mouth he had just checked. It looked like a tiny piece of blue cloth, about two square centimeters in size.

"And what's this doing here?" Adrian asked. He handed it over to Natalie for her to place in an evidence baggie.

"It looks like some sort of cloth, Adrian," I said.

"How could I miss that?" my dad asked.

"There are lots of things that only Adrian notices," I said, "That cloth is one of them. Maybe you could shed some light on what that cloth means?"

"It means that the bodies here were wrapped up in some sort of flammable blanket," Adrian said. "One soaked in gasoline. He did it to accelerate the burning and render the bodies unrecognizable."

"That makes things a whole lot different around here," my dad said. He turned to some of the other cops who were in the room. "Uh, can I have everyone's attention for a moment, please?"

Every fire department investigator, police officer and tech in the room stopped what they were doing and turned to face my dad.

"Sorry to interrupt you, but as of now this is a homicide investigation here, so don't touch everything and be very careful of where you walk."

"Yes, sir," I heard an officer reply.

"Oh, and someone get some extra CSI guys down here, pronto," my dad added.

"Got it," another officer said.

My dad turned back to face Adrian, Natalie and me.

"What the heck is going on here anyways?" he asked, more or less to himself.

"I wouldn't know," Adrian said. "O'Donnell could have killed them as part of another job he's carrying out. That might not be the case, but it's the best theory I can come up with at the moment."

"That's not much to go on," my dad said. "So, tell me more about what happened over at the firehouse."

"You really want us to go over this?" Natalie asked. "I believe Kendra and I are quite burned out by what happened there."

"Should we mention the body count?" I asked.

"No, I don't think so," Adrian replied.

"The guys at the scene told me that you killed two of O'Donnell's men," my dad said, "What's the status on them?"

"We identified one of them," Adrian said, "A fellow named Tadashi Hamada. We saw evidence that suggests he probably worked for O'Donnell as either a bombmaker or an explosives dealer. The other gunman that we killed didn't have any identification on him. But he had a big scar on his face, possibly from an old knife wound, and he had some tattoos suggesting gang affiliations."

"Outstanding police work, Monk," my dad said. "I might have to ask the mayor to give you a medal commending you three for what you did there."

Adrian chuckled. "Maybe after we've taken down O'Donnell, sure."

"Have you learned anything new since we last met, dad?" I asked.

My dad checked his notepad. "We may have caught a lead this morning. A woman named Anita Perez says she shared a drink with some businessman yesterday evening in the bar at the Westin St. Francis Hotel downtown."

"Did she describe him?" Adrian asked.

"She said he was Irish," my dad continued, "And, well, they talked for hours. Then he took her up to his hotel room for a night of whoopee. You know, one-night stand stuff."

"I think we get the picture," Natalie said. "Did he say anything odd?"

"No, but the next morning, when she got up, this man was gone. Nothing unusual about this, but then she found a discarded gun clip in the bathroom trash can, and apparently she was led to think that the man she'd slept with was probably a gangster."

"What caliber ammunition?"

"It was for a 9mm pistol," my dad replied.

"What did she do?" Natalie asked.

"She hightailed it out of there, took it straight to police headquarters, and sat down with a sketch artist. And, well, here's the sketch."

My dad took out his smartphone, flipped through it to find the picture he wanted, and showed it to me, Adrian and Natalie. It definitely looked like one of the gunmen.

"That's…." Natalie started to say.

"That looks almost like Douglas O'Donnell," I said. "Nose is a little exaggerated, but other than that, it looks accurate."

Now we knew where O'Donnell had stayed. Adrian, Natalie and I traded looks.

"Did she get a room number, by any chance?" Natalie asked.

"No, no, she didn't," my dad sighed. "Unfortunately. I'm sending Inspector O'Brien down there right now, checking the guest registries, looking for this room."

"Do you think Optimus Prime needs any help?" Adrian said.

My dad gave a weary look at us. "No, I think he's got that pretty much handled, Adrian. You shouldn't be needed there."

"What are we going to do regarding the McClellan angle?" Adrian asked, gesturing to the corpses.

"I'll call the medical examiner's office and ask them to fast-track the autopsies on the bodies. While that's happening, we'll also probe Paddy's finances. Might not turn up anything but it wouldn't be worth the risk to at least look at that."

"Why would O'Donnell kill him anyways?" I asked.

"Perhaps he didn't like the way his money was being handled?" Adrian suggested. "Though I don't think that would explain away the Thursday attack."

"What about O'Donnell? Aren't we organizing a manhunt?" Natalie asked.

"Yes, we are," my dad said, "I'm going to be organizing a task force first thing tomorrow morning, with Chief Suhr's approval, of course."

"Right, you have to go through the Chief," Natalie said.

"What about telling the media about O'Donnell's identity?" I asked.

"We're not going to say his name at all," my dad said, "In fact, we won't be releasing the names of any of the gunmen, alive or deceased. I don't want the legitimate Intertect investigators who aren't involved in this criminal network to be mobbed by reporters every time they enter and leave the building.

"That's a good idea," Natalie said. "The task force, that is. I don't suppose you'll want us to be there?"

"You should be there," he replied, "You three have been the leaders of this investigation from the very beginning, so you have the most insight."

"We will make sure to be there," Adrian said.

"That's great," I said. I then looked down at my watch. "Adrian, Natalie, look at the time. We need to be going."

"For what, Kend-Oh, right, the meeting with Denise's snitch," Adrian said, "With the shooting and this fire, that almost escaped my mind."

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I turned and started to walk towards the open front door.

"What's this about a snitch?" my dad asked.

"Nothing, dad," I said, "Just call us if anything turns up."

Natalie and I stepped out the front door and onto the mostly intact front porch, preparing to head back to the car. Adrian had just planted his left foot outside when he suddenly stopped. I wondered what deduction he was making now.

"Oh, uh, Kendrick," Adrian turned around to face my dad, who was right behind him. "I almost forgot to mention. Um, you remember that Intertect operative you met the other day after the McCabe's shootout? The one that's allied with us."

"Danielle Hossack," my dad said, "Yes, I remember her."

"The reason we were even at the firehouse to begin with was because of her," Adrian said, "We actually found out that there was a break-in there in the early hours of Thursday morning, the same night as the armored car robbery."

"What did they take?" my dad asked, writing in his notepad. "The thieves from the break-in, not O'Donnell's shooting crew, that is."

"A rescue cutter," Adrian said, "The ones that they use in severe car accidents and building collapses. At least one or two intruders broke in and stole it, but not before shooting and killing the firehouse's guard dog. We think that the cutter may have been what O'Donnell or some of his accomplices used to kill Martha Jansen in her apartment the following night."

My dad nodded. I could see him putting together the same picture I'd put together: the gasoline, the streaks on the floor, and a gasoline-powered device that could replicate the bite force of an alligator. It was perfect.

"I see it," my dad said, "Rescue cutter with alligator jaws glued on the head."

"Yep," I said.

"And Kendrick, I should mention that Danielle's kind of upset about what's happened, especially now that two people she's close to have been murdered," Adrian said, "A lover of hers is among the dead. So I was wondering, if you had any possible ideas of how we could help her?"

My dad pondered for a moment as he tried to think of something. Considering Danielle's inside knowledge of Intertect, and Douglas O'Donnell, I think he was contemplating just how useful she might be, and whether or not she needed protection in case O'Donnell decided to go after her.

"I wouldn't know," my dad said, after about twenty seconds. "What were you thinking?"

"I'm suggesting that maybe we relocate her workspace to the station," Adrian said, "Temporarily, that is."

"We could do that," my dad said, almost immediately.

"You want to move Danielle to the police station, Adrian?" Natalie asked. "Why?"

"For a number of reasons," Adrian replied, "One, I think it would give her a taste of what real SFPD investigation work is like. Two, O'Donnell would probably never target a police station. And three, it's a lot easier to liaise with Intertect resources when you've got one of their own on the inside."

"I see what you're going for, Adrian," my dad said. He then added, in a low voice, "And, well, I hate to be insensitive to certain people who aren't in this room right now, but I suppose this is good timing for your new ally. I just heard from Lansdale that Randy got shot engaging O'Donnell in the gunfight."

"Yeah, I know, we uh…" I shuddered as the image of Lieutenant Disher falling to the ground, shot multiple times in the chest, flashed across my mind. The image was barely a few hours old, but it seemed permanently etched into my brain, like a reminder telling me _You let Disher get wounded, Kendra_."We saw it happen. Most unfortunate."

"Given what Lansdale's told me about Randy's injuries, I don't think he'll be back at work for a month at minimum."

"We'll be sure to send some flowers to him the first chance we can," Adrian said, more to me and Natalie than to my dad.

"Just contact Danielle as soon as possible and invite her to work at the station instead of at Intertect. I can give her a tour and introduce her to all of the other Robbery-Homicide inspectors."

"Good," Adrian said. "Thanks a lot, Kendrick." He turned back to me and Natalie. "Let's go meet up with Braddock, ladies."


	24. The Diamond Dealer in the Hotel Room

It had only been a few hours since O'Donnell had attacked the firehouse. There weren't yet any leads as of yet, other than that we had reason to think the gang had targeted the chairman of El Dorado Trust and his wife, this time with much more success. With no sign of the getaway van, or any sign of the gang's whereabouts, no word yet from Danielle on her search of O'Donnell's office, and no positive idea of what O'Donnell's next move might be, we were stumped.

I knew my dad was already coordinating search efforts to locate any associate of O'Donnell's and squeeze them for the location of the gang. But identifying suspects through conventional fact-digging wasn't our strength. We knew why the gang had attacked the firehouse, but following a trail was another type of mystery. As far as we were concerned, O'Donnell had vanished into thin air. It was going to be up to my dad to undertake the next step: seeking out associates of O'Donnell's, and getting information from them, and when he found a lead that sounded promising, have Adrian, Natalie and me go out and check it out.

* * *

From the burned out remains of the McClellan house, we climbed in our car and drove east on Geary, headed towards downtown San Francisco.

"Just where, oh, where is O'Donnell?" I asked to myself as we drove.

"I wouldn't know, Kendra," Adrian said, "The only possible guess I have isn't even a definitive one."

"What is it?" I asked, sounding hopeful.

"Laying low," Adrian said.

I scoffed. "That's not good enough."

"Aww, that's a shame," Natalie said, "I thought you were about to say you observed evidence back there at the McClellan house or at the firehouse, telling us where he was. How do you know he's lying low?"

"Uh, considering how it's been about two hours since the shooting, Natalie," Adrian said, "I'd say that lying low is their safest option. This case is going to be a feeding frenzy. I think every TV station in the country that isn't TMZ is covering the shootings as we speak."

I had to admit that I hated that. My dad had drilled it into my head to never be fond of the media. He says it's because they're prone to taking dialogue out of context and spinning any investigation in a way that makes a good soundbite on the evening news. They love to trick the public into thinking that the police are a bunch of incompetent fools, about as much as they try to manipulate people into thinking that there's systematic profiling of black people in the poorer communities. On the other hand, I had to admit that the media was useful at times, especially if there was a dangerous criminal on the loose and it was important that the public be made aware of the imposing danger.

"I should've killed that bastard the moment he entered," I muttered.

"And risk us being shot by his henchmen?" Natalie asked. "Kendra, no way in hell."

"We'll catch him and his men, somehow," Adrian said. I stared at him blankly. "Oh-okay, Kendra, Kendra, I promise you something: if we end up having to kill O'Donnell, you can be the one to put the bullet in his head. You're the one who seems most eager to see him dead. There's just one thing you have to agree to do with me."

"What's that?" I asked.

"If you do it, you'll have to passionately make out with me immediately after his legs stop twitching," Adrian said.

I smiled at Adrian.

"That sounds like a good offer, Adrian," I said, "Of course, we're making out at least two or three times a day so it's kinda moot!"

"Not as moot now," he said, "We're just going to have to be really careful. O'Donnell must have lots of help. After all, he worked in Vice. So I imagine that he's got tons of connections so he undoubtedly has control of hundreds of lackeys to do his bidding."

"That sounds a lot like the way villains in the movies work," Natalie said. Adrian gave a weary look at her.

"Natalie, those are movies," he said, "O'Donnell and his men are a lot more ruthless than most action movie villains."

"Adrian, I know that," she said, "Hopefully we can catch them before they can inflict any more pain and suffering on a city under siege."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Adrian replied. He turned to me. "Though, I think, when all things are considered, I think that if anyone's enduring some form of suffering at the hands of this gang, it would be the three of us."

"You're damn right about that," I exclaimed, "I'm just a fried bundle of nerves here!"

I took a deep breath. It wasn't like me to snap like that, but I was typically able to get my anger under control just as quickly.

"O'Donnell and his men might have a mission statement. A subgoal of whatever mission they're undertaking is to destroy us and everything we stand for," Adrian continued, "All for the sake of some higher purpose."

"I assume that means, _kill us_ ," I said.

"Not necessarily, Kendra," Adrian said, "Remember Dale Biederbeck?"

"Dale the Whale, yeah," Natalie said, "I mean, the fat imprisoned bastard that attempted to have Governor Brown assassinated and put the Lt. Governor in his office so that he would get a pardon while you got sent away, framed for murder? That was _gold_."

"Ah, yes, but you see, you can't get to the Governor," Adrian said, "Because he's almost 80 years old and he's still quite a badass."

"And then thanks to my dad's intervention, we broke you out so you could go on the run to clear your name," I said. I smiled as I remembered the experience. "Oh, the memories! Nothing beats the thrill of being on the run from the police with your husband unless your husband is an escaped prison convict!"

"I was only arraigned, never convicted," Adrian said.

"But still, those were the most thrilling two weeks we ever had outside of San Francisco– shootouts with the police, passionate make-out sessions, lots of explosions – best vacation ever!"

Adrian, Natalie and I laughed.

"Those were some fun days," Natalie said.

"Anyways, Kendra," Adrian said, in a more serious tone, "Biederbeck worked like Professor Moriarty does in the Sherlock Holmes stories."

"And what does this have to do with O'Donnell, Adrian?" I asked.

"What I'm saying, Kendra, is that O'Donnell is the new Dale Biederbeck," Adrian explained, "O'Donnell and his men have committed countless brutal murders. But, I think they are only done as a means to an end, their way of achieving a larger, more satisfying mission. I don't really think that O'Donnell wants to kill us. Probably because he knows that killing us would just spark a larger crackdown on his organization. It's like the five families of organized crime in New York: they don't target cops because that draws unwanted heat. No, if O'Donnell can't kill us, he'll just make our lives a living hell. That could be one reason he's doing all of these heinous crimes, the shootouts, the robberies, all of them. He's what the department psychiatrist calls a megalomaniac. They are very skilled, very cunning. Very dangerous."

"What the hell does that even mean, 'megalomaniac'?" I asked.

"He's a control person," Adrian said, "You saw how he stayed calm and composed during the robbery. He never looked angry, not even when shooting at us. He looked practically emotionless throughout the entire job. He delights in crafting genius ways of making his enemies suffer. Killing them directly would take all the fun out of it. That's why he wanted a gory crime scene, and why he subjected some of those victims, like McQuinn, to much crueler fates."

"Yeah," I scoffed, "I hate that word, 'cruel.' I just want to put O'Donnell and every other member of his robbery crew or criminal network or whatever it is either in prison or in the ground, and preferably the latter."

"O'Donnell must obviously have a way of contacting his accomplices," Natalie said, "I suppose we should maybe check phone records."

Adrian sighed. "You do realize that O'Donnell probably knows every police tactic in the book that we could use to track him, Natalie?"

"Perhaps we can also contact every known firearms dealer in the city looking for any thefts or unusual purchases," Natalie said.

"I don't think we'll turn up anything by checking gun stores," Adrian said.

"Why not?" Natalie asked.

"Because do you really think a criminal intending to use a gun to kill someone is going to purchase it legitimately? Where it could be easily traced? No. I mean, remember Kate Steinle from last year?" Adrian replied.

"Yeah, rings a bell," Natalie said, "The uh, the med tech chick that got shot at the pier by that guy who was in the country illegally."

"And whose death sparked this massive and somewhat out-of-proportion debate about our city's sanctuary laws," I said, finishing Natalie's sentence. I chuckled.

"I know we weren't involved in the case," Adrian said, "But remember that the guy didn't get the gun legally. He broke into a Land Management Bureau ranger's car to acquire it. But comparing O'Donnell to Juan Francisco Sanchez is like comparing apples to oranges here. O'Donnell's a robber and mass murderer, and Sanchez is a petty crook. The O'Donnell crew probably has lots of connections to acquire ammunition. Like, I'd not be surprised if he's getting aid from friends of his father and they're smuggling weapons into the country."

I remembered now. Danielle had mentioned in her background check on O'Donnell that his father had been a member of an IRA splinter cell. The idea that perhaps O'Donnell was receiving weaponry and guns from friends of his father made a lot of sense. But something else crossed my mind: I knew that there were several organized crime families that had bases of operation in the San Francisco Bay Area. It struck me that O'Donnell's contacts could have come from there.

"Or he's just reaching out to one of the local syndicates," I said, "Don't many of them turn a hefty profit through gun running?"

"That too is possible, Kendra," Adrian said, "Good thinking. If that's the case, that might also be good news for us."

"How?" Natalie asked.

"Because we also are on good terms with the heads of the families. Remember?" Adrian said, "All because we managed to exonerate the head of the Lucarelli syndicate when he was wrongly accused of murdering a CHP trooper."

"How could we possibly forget that," I said. I took a deep breath and leaned my head against the window, looking at the oncoming traffic. We were almost at St. Mary's Cathedral now. Given we were headed to the Westin St. Francis to meet with Paul Braddock, another thought entered my head.

"Do you really think that Braddock will have anything useful on Douglas O'Donnell or his gang?" I asked.

"We won't know until we get there, Kendra," Adrian replied, "Based on what Danielle said about him yesterday, he seems to be a trustworthy source. But, then again, considering all that's happened today, we might as well just not trust anyone. That might be a better motto."

"I'm just saying, considering the guy's a bit of a hothead and didn't get along with my dad's boss," I countered.

"There's always the option to just wing it," Natalie said.

"Let's just take that option," Adrian said.

* * *

The Westin St. Francis Hotel was located in the heart of downtown San Francisco, right in Union Square on the Powell Street side. It was one of the oldest, grandest, and stodgiest places to say, a five-star hotel with an eight star attitude. So, they were probably not happy about the fact that there were police cars, another Crime Scene Investigation unit, an ambulance, and a morgue van parked in front of the lobby.

Obviously, someone else had been killed. I had to feel for the inspectors who had been put on this case because all of them probably wanted to be participating in the manhunt for Douglas O'Donnell.

We parked our car with the rest of the police vehicles and went inside to find where all the police activity was located. It wasn't all that hard. We just had to ask the concierge, "Hey, where's the dead body?"

* * *

The concierge told us that the body was in a room on the twelfth floor. We just had to ride the elevator up there. The twelfth floor was cordoned off by uniformed cops, who cleared us to enter the scene with a quick nod. Inspector Danny O'Brien was in the hallway, interviewing a maid standing by her cart.

Danny (so as to avoid confusion with the accomplice on O'Donnell's crew, I'll refer to Inspector O'Brien by his first name Danny in the narrative, although we always addressed him by last name) was a veteran police inspector in his late 50s, with a greatly receded hairline, and had worked in law enforcement for 33 years, starting off as a beat cop in the LAPD and transferring up to San Francisco around the same time I was born. Around the station, he was known for being a bit of a conspiracy nut. He believed that there were such things as killer robots that could impersonate humans, one of whom he alleged was responsible for killing his partner in 1984.

"Oh, look, it's Optimus Prime," Adrian said to me and Natalie under his breath as we caught sight of Danny.

"Gee, let's see if he thinks the robots are behind this," Natalie whispered.

We walked over to him.

"Hey, O'Brien," Adrian said.

"Monk. What are you three doing here?" Danny asked.

"Oh," Natalie said, "Uh, we were just in the neighborhood and happened to be listening to police scanners."

"Yeah," Adrian said, "And given how stretched our resources are, what with the shooting and President Underwood being in town, we figured that you needed an extra pair of hands."

"I definitely could use them here," Danny nodded.

"What's going on here?" I asked. "An O'Donnell crime, I gather?"

"Maybe," Danny said. "I was just starting to go through the guest lists looking to see which room O'Donnell rented here last night when the hotel manager approached me. A maid had found a man bludgeoned to death in that room right there." Danny pointed to the one room with an open door in this part of the hallway. "I was the closest detective to the scene so I took the call."

"This can't be good," Natalie said, "You sound like you'd rather be hunting Douglas O'Donnell."

"Yeah, I would," Danny said, bitterly, "But unlike you three, I can't pick and choose my cases. I do what Lieutenant Davenport directs me to do. And the guys who normally would do this are all down at the station tracking down other leads."

"Well, we're here," Adrian said, "The three of us might as well check it out for ourselves." He gestured to me and Natalie. "Ladies?"

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I walked into the hotel room. There were two beds in the room. On one of them lay the dead body of a very hairy and naked 40 something year old man in his underwear, tangled up in the blood-spattered sheets.

"I'd almost rather prefer to have seen a submachine gun murder," Natalie said.

There was a half-empty bottle of wine and two glasses sitting on the table. Adrian was quick to analyze them.

"Hmm, there's lipstick on this one," Adrian said.

"So two people were definitely in here," I said. "Maybe a girlfriend?"

"Could be," Natalie said, "Maybe she intended to get him drunk so he'd be easier to overpower."

"So, definitely not the work of some liquid metal contraption," Adrian said in a low voice. Natalie and I chuckled. Danny looked momentarily stunned.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothing," Adrian said, "Who's the deceased?"

"His name's Clarke Woodley, according to the front desk, and he checked in yesterday afternoon around five o'clock," Danny said.

"With a credit card, right?" Adrian asked.

"Yep," Danny said.

"Where is it?" Natalie asked.

"Probably in his wallet," Danny replied.

"Which is obviously missing, isn't it?" Adrian asked.

"Yes, sir, it is," Danny replied.

"And he's clearly not wearing any watch or jewelry," Adrian said, "But the tan lines on his wrists and around the base of his ring fingers suggest he used to wear some."

"My best guess so far is that he was robbed," Danny said, "Probably by a hooker."

"Do you think that's possible?" I asked Adrian.

Adrian cocked his head and looked at the body again, as if doing so was going to change his perspective of the scene.

"Maybe," Adrian said, "See, Kendra, these kinds of cases happen all the time. Actually more often than your dad wishes they did. An out-of-towner – which in this case typically means someone from down in San Jose or across the bay in Oakland - comes here, picks up a hooker for a night of intimacy, and she separates him from his money and his jewelry. It typically ends there, and sadly, we never hear about it. Most victims tend to be guys who are too embarrassed or married to report the crime without fearing their spouse will leave them."

"So, if this was a prostitute, and she knew that the odds were good that her victim wouldn't report the theft, why kill him?" I asked.

"Maybe she only intended to hit him hard enough to put him out for a while," Natalie said, "Like, five-ten minutes tops."

"And clobbering someone is a crapshoot," Adrian said, "Hit too lightly, they can hit you back. Hit them too hard, you put them down for good."

"I'd do the simpler option. I'd just morph my arm into a giant silver blade and impale him through the back," Natalie whispered.

"Why not use the date-rape drug?" I asked. "I'd think if I was a prostitute and I wanted to rob a client, I'd use Royphnol. Puts them out and they don't remember a thing afterwards."

"That's pretty difficult to come by," Natalie said. "Plus, it's not always effective."

"I know that. But still…..picking up a prostitute and bringing her back to your hotel room is such a really big risk to your personal health and safety in like, a million different ways," I said, "What do these people even think they're achieving by doing this?"

Adrian gave me a look.

"What do _you_ think they're thinking?" he asked.

"That men are idiots," I said, "Not you of course, Adrian, but other men in general. Pretty much any man who isn't a cop."

"Men are men," Adrian said.

"So what really can you do now?" Natalie asked Danny.

Adrian squeezed past me to examine the clothes on the other bed.

"Obviously I'm not on the Douglas O'Donnell trail," Danny said, "There are other criminals out there too. Given how far and thin Robbery-Homicide is with that one, I'm going to be making some calls to Vice before I'm done here."

"What does this entail?" Natalie asked.

"A lot of digging," Adrian said, "In cases like this, we typically start by questioning the hotel doormen, the concierges, the busboys-all the hotel staff who are the most likely to put clients in touch with the ladies in exchange for a little commission. They'll be pressed to talk, they'll us give some names. We'll also have every hooker in the city rounded up and squeezed for an alibi. And we'll put every escort service in town under close surveillance. At the same time, Vice will also monitor the fences and pawnbrokers most likely to be moving stolen merchandise of this nature."

"Sounds like a lot of hard work," I said.

"That's how it usually gets done most of the time. How again did your dad become the leader of Robbery-Homicide, Kendra? Hard work." Adrian was now examining the dead man's clothing.

"So do you have any new leads on Douglas O'Donnell's visit here, O'Brien?" Natalie asked Danny. "Look, I know that with the shooting, the media blitz that's generating, and now this thing here, we're stretched out, but anything?"

"Oh, right, the hotel visit," Danny said. He checked a notepad he'd dedicated to the O'Donnell case. "Yeah, we actually got one possible hit right before this body turned up. A guy from Contra Costa named Mick Maguire checked in to room 1001 yesterday afternoon. Of course, that couldn't have been his real name considering that the real Mr. Maguire claims his wallet was pickpocketed on a BART train on Friday morning."

"Anything on the surveillance cameras?" I asked. "Surely, the guy purporting to call himself 'Mick Maguire' must have been seen on camera at some point? I mean, this is one of the finest five-star hotels in the world, not a dive place that gets subjected to drug raids twice a year."

"I've got two guys working that, Miss Davenport," Danny said, "Trust me."

"It's probably an exercise in futility. O'Donnell probably knows how to avoid the cameras," Adrian said, "I believe Intertect installed the security systems here. So he likely is aware of what areas are blind spots."

"When did the maid find the body?" Natalie asked.

"About an hour ago," Danny said, "She came in to clean the room and found him right here."

"So she hasn't cleaned the room since yesterday's shifts?" Adrian asked.

"If you're talking about Hannah Menendez, the girl outside, no," Danny said, "The maid who is normally supposed to be handling this floor, Maria, called in sick today with food poisoning. Hannah apparently says she normally works just the thirteenth floor and today she took a double shift to cover for Maria."

"Ah," Adrian said, "What was in Mr. Woodley's pockets?"

Danny looked at his notepad.

"Jeweler's loupe, Tums, some spare change approximating 71 cents, and some lint," he said, "Not much really. I'd said she picked him clean."

"Yeah, she really did," Adrian said. "Excuse me for a moment."

Natalie and I watched as Adrian went into the bathroom and rummaged through a large toiletry bag sitting on the counter next to the sink.

Adrian opened the bag and pulled out a vinyl case. He brought it back in and set it down on the table before unzipping it. In it were a bunch of tiny syringes, some vials, and a red box labeled NEEDLE CLIPPER/ BIOHAZARDOUS WASTE, with a pinhole on one end.

"Insulin?" Natalie asked.

"Yeah, he must have been a diabetic," Adrian said. "But something's missing from this case here."

"What?" I asked.

"Where's his MedicAlert bracelet? The one that goes off to tell him when to administer it?" Adrian asked.

"The hooker must have taken it with the rest of his stuff," Danny said.

Adrian gave Danny a hard look. "Do you want to know many fences I know that would be willing to take a MedicAlert bracelet, O'Brien? None."

Something caught Adrian's attention out of the corner of his eye. In a split second, he turned to look at the spare bed. "Hmm, that's interesting."

"What?" I asked.

Adrian motioned to the top sheet, folded around the corners and tucked under the mattress.

"Look at the way the top sheet on this bed's been tucked in," Adrian said, "Folded around the corners, tucked under the mattress in a half-triangle formation. Also known as the gift-wrap method of making a bed. Kendra, Natalie, you make your beds that way."

"Yeah, we do," I said, "It's so much easier. It's also more comfortable, if anything."

"But look at the bed the body's on," Adrian said, pointing, "That's the Salvadoran method of folding sheets. See these creases on the sides where the top sheet is tucked under the mattress?"

Adrian stepped outside and approached Hannah Menendez.

"Excuse me, ma'am, what was the last room you cleaned before you got to that room with the stiff back there?" Adrian asked.

"Right here," Hannah said.

Hannah unlocked the door across the hall from the body and stood to one side while Adrian stepped inside. Natalie and I watched as Adrian took a glance at one of the beds.

"Let me guess, ma'am, your father probably served in El Salvador," Adrian said, "And he taught you how they make their beds."

She nodded shyly.

"You could bounce a peso off that bed," Adrian said.

"Those don't exist in El Salvador," Hannah said.

"True, but my point still stands," Adrian replied.

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I reentered Woodley's hotel room.

"You guys are done, right? I can tell the coroner to take Mr. Woodley away when he gets here?" Danny said.

"Not yet, O'Brien," Adrian said, "One, I think the coroners are still at the firehouse or at Paddy McClellan's place. Also, that's not Clarke Woodley."

Danny gave him a look. "Do you know him, Monk?"

"No," Adrian said.

"So how do you know it's not Clarke Woodley?"

"Because that man," Adrian pointed at the body, "Didn't stay in this room at all. And this room is registered to Clarke Woodley."

"Isn't that the victim's stuff in the closets and the bathroom?" Natalie asked.

"Yes, it is," Adrian said, "Those clothes and those toiletries are his."

"So what makes you think he's not Clarke Woodley and he never stayed in this room?" Natalie asked.

"Where are the diamonds?" Adrian asked.

"What diamonds?" I asked.

"The ones this guy was selling, and which were also stolen from him," Adrian said, "This man has never been with a prostitute and he's never set foot in this room."

"He's in here right now," I said.

"He's never set foot in this room _while alive_ ," Adrian said, "Everything in this room is proof of it."

Natalie and I looked around the room for a long, quiet moment.

"Maybe you could tell us what you're seeing, Adrian?" Natalie asked.

"All right," Adrian said.

* * *

The thing about Adrian Monk is that that while he is a charming guy, he's even more charming when he solves a murder and explains what really happened during the crime. It's during this period where he's summing up the case, explaining who the killer is, and how the crime was committed, that I see the true personality of the man I fell in love with and married.

"His name isn't even 'Clarke Woodley' to begin with," Adrian said, "It's a fake name that the killer rented this room under, presumably because that was the name he used on his stolen credit cards. The victim was actually killed in his room on the thirteenth floor, and his room is currently occupied by the killer, who, if he hasn't yet checked out, is wearing the victim's MedicAlert bracelet on his left wrist."

"The thirteenth floor?" I asked. I pointed at Hannah Menendez. "Isn't that where this maid usually works?"

"She's the one who brought the body down here in her linen cart after the murder and staged the scene," Adrian said.

Hannah made a small gasp and took a few steps back into the hall, like she was going to run. With uniformed police officers standing at both ends of the hall, there wasn't anywhere for her to go.

"Well if I didn't know you were right before, I do right now just from looking at her facial expressions," Natalie said. "Would you like to tell us what happened or do you want him to explain every point where you screwed up?"

Hannah bit on her lower lip, but said nothing. Adrian, Natalie and I were relieved. We didn't want to be robbed of our moment, and I think my dad was just having a bit of fun of his own. After seeing the aftermath of our shootout with Douglas O'Donnell, he probably needed to cut loose a bit.

"Sorry, Adrian, you're doing all the heavy lifting today, I'm afraid," Natalie said in a most sincere voice. She and I looked at Adrian and grinned.

"This man, whatever his real name is, was a diamond dealer," Adrian said.

"You got that from the fact that there was part of a jeweler's loupe in his pocket," Natalie said.

"Yeah, well, that only confirmed what I figured when I looked at the right-hand sleeves on all his shirts and jackets here," Adrian said. He pulled out his pen, walked over to the spare bed, and lifted the right sleeve of the victim's shirt.

"If you look closely, there are slight abrasions and scratch marks on his cuffs. That's because he chained his merchandise case to his right wrist. You'd have to cut his hand off with a knife to get the diamonds away from them."

"The killer murdered the diamond dealer and assumed his identity," I said.

"Why bother?" Natalie asked. "Why not just run off with the diamonds and end the story there?"

"Because he wouldn't be done with the diamonds," Adrian said, "He'd still have to fence them, which means taking a big risk and cutting someone else in on the score. His real plan was much simpler, and much more brilliant: he would sell these diamonds off to the legitimate buyers and then pocket the money meant to go to the dealer."

"What if the buyers already had met Woodley face to face?" Danny asked.

"They hadn't, and the killer presumably knows this, or he wouldn't have done this," Adrian said.

"So what proof do we have?"

"He's a diabetic," Adrian said, "He probably wouldn't have had alcohol."

"Some diabetics do drink," Natalie said.

"Yes, Natalie, that is true. And I know that there are some diabetics who can control their condition through modified diet, exercise and whatnot," Adrian said, "But how could this guy have taken his insulin shots? See, ordinarily, he probably injects himself with a syringe, clips the needle into this biohazardous container, then disposes of the syringe. If this guy's been here since yesterday, and the room hasn't been cleaned since he checked in, why are there no vials in this room?"

The answer quickly popped into my head.

"They're still upstairs in the original room," I said.

"Probably," Adrian said.

"This insulin thing does suggest he was moved," Danny chimed in, "But it doesn't prove it."

"O'Brien, you're right," Adrian said, "It does not. But the bed is proof."

"The bed's from upstairs?" I smiled.

"How do you move a hotel bed down one floor? A forklift?" Natalie said.

"I wish, Natalie, but, no," Adrian said, "This hotel bed from this room."

"Aw, that's a shame," Natalie looked crestfallen, "I thought for a moment you were about to show us that this bed was indeed moved down from the other room."

I laughed. It felt so nice to find something legitimately funny about a crime scene after the long morning and the bloodbath at the firehouse.

"If you recall, Hannah just told us that she walked into this room to clean it and found the body," Adrian said, "How could she have made the victim's bed?"

Adrian pulled up the blanket to show us how the top sheet was folded under the mattress of the bed the body was on.

"The top sheet as shown on the corner of this bed is tucked using the folding style that Hannah used in the other room," Adrian said, "The top sheet on the other bed is folded around the mattress like it's wrapping paper. This bed, the one the body is sitting on, was made after Maria, the normal maid, cleaned the room yesterday morning. Hannah used the elevator to bring the body down from upstairs in her linen cart. Once in here, she remade the bed, then planted the body in it, to destroy any evidence left by the murderer when _he_ slept here last night."

Natalie and I looked at Hannah, who bit on her lip again. It was clear that she knew things were only going to get worse for her from this point out.

"You've convinced me, but I'm not going to secure a conviction off of how she folds bedsheets," Danny said, "The lieutenant would be like, 'No way, Danny Boy'."

"The wineglasses are proof," Adrian said, "The lipstick on the rim of this one is hers. It's practically better than a fingerprint. DNA aside, her upper lip is chapped, which is why she's chewing on it. That ought to be an exact match."

Danny turned to Hannah.

"Excuse me, Miss Menendez?" he asked.

"Do you need something?"

"I'm sorry, but you're under arrest," Danny said, securing her arms with handcuffs.

While Danny was doing that and reading Hannah her rights, Natalie turned to Adrian and asked him one question that was bothering her.

"How did Hannah know that Maria would be out sick today?" Natalie asked.

"It's obvious, Natalie," Adrian said, "She poisoned her."

"I told Darin this would never work," Hannah said, shaking her head, "But he said it was foolproof and we'd have vanished by the time someone pieced it all together."

"You probably would have been, too, if it weren't for my husband," I said. I turned to Adrian and kissed him.

Danny turned his attention to Hannah.

"So, Hannah, do you want to tell us where Darin is?" he asked, "Or do you want to take the murder rap for him and let him enjoy drinks on a tropical island somewhere with a new girlfriend?"

"He's in room 1313," Hannah said without hesitation.

Danny glanced at us. "Do you guys want to come along for the arrest?"

"I don't think so, O'Brien," Adrian said, "We're supposed to have a meeting with someone who has information on Douglas O'Donnell in about five minutes. That's actually the whole reason why we even came by."

"OK," Danny said, "Suit yourself."

* * *

 **A/N:** By the way, if you're wondering why Inspector O'Brien believes in killer robots, well, he's the same guy as the SFPD inspector played by J.K. Simmons in _Terminator: Genisys_ that Sarah Connor and Kyle Reese saved from a T-1000 attack in 1984, and who in turn aided them at several points in 2017. This entire murder investigation in the hotel is based off a brief solved-on-the-spot murder that is committed in the novel _Mr. Monk In Outer Space_.


	25. Denise's Detective Friend

Naturally, Adrian and I started making out the moment we got on the elevator to leave the crime scene. I just felt turned on whenever Adrian solved a homicide, especially when it took our minds off the O'Donnell case, even for a short time. We'd brought a little bit of justice to another deceased person's friends and family in the San Francisco Bay Area. Now it was time to talk with Paul Braddock, the police detective that Danielle said her sister had been in contact with. He'd arranged to meet us in the bar around this time.

The three of us had just stepped out of the elevator when Adrian stopped, as if something had just occurred to him.

"Natalie, Kendra, did Danielle give Braddock a description of what we look like?" he asked.

"I don't know," Natalie said, "Do you want me to call her?"

"That would be helpful, sure," Adrian said.

Natalie took out her cell phone and dialed Danielle.

"Hey, Danielle?" Natalie asked.

"Hey, Natalie, what's up?" Danielle asked on the other end.

"You get anything out of O'Donnell's office?" Natalie asked. "Adrian, Kendra and I are curious."

"Yep, I did," Danielle said, "I checked his calendar. Apparently, he had some sort of meeting yesterday afternoon with someone out in Golden Gate Park."

"A meeting?" Natalie asked.

"Yeah, with some guy named 'Drogo'," Danielle replied. "Figure it's probably a codename. I'm trying to check that name out now."

"Anything else there?" Natalie asked.

"Yeah," Danielle said, "Found a photo of Paddy McClellan on his wall. It's not a surprise that he knew him."

"Oh, him?" Natalie said, "You know, we kinda figured that was the case, given O'Donnell's social status. The guy's everyone's best friend."

"I'm actually about to head off to his house to talk to him," Danielle said, "You wanna come along?"

Natalie winced. "Oohh, I don't think you want to do that, Danielle."

"Why not?" she asked. "I might get a better chance to figure out why O'Donnell attacked him."

"Because we think O'Donnell's gang killed Paddy and his wife right before they attacked the firehouse," Natalie said, "Kendra's dad's working that. We're just waiting for an autopsy on that one."

"Oh," Danielle said, surprised, "Jeez, this case is getting worse by the minute."

"It sure is," Natalie said. She then paused, as she remembered what she wanted to ask Danielle. "Danielle, another thing, did you ever tell Paul Braddock what we look like?"

Danielle hesitated for a moment. "Now that you mention it, I didn't. But he's going to be in a table at the far back of the bar. You can't miss him."

"Good, thanks," Natalie said, "Call you later."

Natalie hung up.

"Danielle says that O'Donnell apparently had some sort of visit to the park yesterday afternoon after his shootout with us at McCabe's," Natalie said to me and Adrian, "Apparently, he met someone named Mr. Drogo at a BART station out in the East Bay."

"Interesting," Adrian said.

"Anything on Paul Braddock?" I asked.

"Yes, Kendra, indeed," she said, "I know where he is."

* * *

The cocktail lounge at the Westin St. Francis was white collar and elegant. The upscale and well-dressed clientele snacked on complimentary tapas and warm almonds and spent considerably more on their libations, but they were probably every bit as lonely and bored, alcoholic and horny. Most of the women I saw were thin, expertly and expensively styled, and bearing lots of cleavage. There were also several businessmen there, who looked about the same, as far as being alcoholic and horny goes. A bar is a bar after all, no matter how much you dress up the place or the clientele who frequent it. Although, to be frank I think my roadie clothes made me kinda stand out, as did Natalie as she hadn't bothered to take off her long-sleeve coat at all since we'd left the penthouse. There were several TVs around the bar, all of whom were airing breaking news coverage about the firehouse attack.

* * *

The man we took to be Paul Braddock was sitting at a table in the back of the room, visible to everyone inside as well as anyone who entered or left. He seemed like a human cinderblock, with a flat-top buzz cut on his head. He was wearing a casual button shirt and khakis. On his table, he had a couple of bowls of mixed nuts and several empty drinking glasses.

Adrian, Natalie and I walked up to him with all the aspect of authority that we had in the city.

"Excuse me, Mr. Braddock?" Natalie said, getting his attention, "My name is Natalie Teeger. This is Adrian Monk and Kendra Davenport."

"Danielle told me you were coming," Braddock said. He checked his watch. "You're actually kinda early. I wasn't expecting you to be here for another half-hour."

"Yeah, well, the cop activity upstairs drew us here," Adrian said. He shook hands with Braddock and gestured for me and Natalie to do the same.

"Please, sit down," Braddock gestured.

Adrian and I sat down across from Braddock, and Natalie took a seat on Braddock's right.

"So, how's it going with you three?" he asked.

"We've had better days, that's for sure," I said. That felt like an understatement, coming from me.

"I can't imagine," Braddock said. He gestured to the televisions at the bar. "SFPD's been calling us several times today, asking us to send a few guys to powwow with them tomorrow morning about that."

"Yes, they are," Adrian replied. "In fact, we're here because you might know our primary suspects in that case."

"It was my understanding that you're here because you want to question me about the death of Denise Hossack," Braddock said.

"That too," Adrian added.

"What do you want to know?"

"We think that Denise Hossack was murdered last Wednesday," Natalie said, "We want to know what you know about her."

Braddock scratched his head with his hand as he thought up a response. "I'm very familiar with Denise."

"In what way?"

"Around July 25th, she and this other guy Luke Reordan show up at my doorstep," he continued, "They tell me that they're from the investigative journal _Bullseye,_ and they are conducting an investigation into Douglas O'Donnell."

"Intertect CEO," I said.

"Correct," Braddock said. "And, well, what they were asking me about was kind of shocking. Miss Hossack and Mr. Reordan were claiming that Doug was some sort of terrorist and they had this opinion that he was planning something big."

"Something big," Adrian repeated, "What was this big thing?"

"They didn't say," Braddock shrugged, "All they told me was that they thought Doug was staging terrorist attacks on various big companies and profiting off them, such as the Circle, down in San Jose."

"We are a bit aware of that," I said, "Did they have any proof?"

"Hossack said to me that she'd gotten a job with the company and began to sleep with Edward O'Brien, Doug's chief financial officer, in an attempt to get intel on this 'big thing'," Braddock said, "But she said that was going nowhere. They asked if I could commit some of my police resources in the Oakland PD to investigate the man."

"Did you?" I asked.

"I did," Braddock said, "Once I got them to fork over about $5,000."

Natalie looked disgusted. "You solicited _a bribe_? You're an agent of law enforcement! You're disgracing the integrity of the system by taking a bribe!"

"Miss Teeger, the bribe was their way of paying me to investigate," Braddock countered. Natalie took a few deep breaths. "I wasn't intending to use the money for personal gain at all."  
"OK," Natalie said, "But if your superiors found out, you might come up as the subject of an Internal Affairs or FBI investigation."

"A risk I'm willing to take," Braddock said.

"So, taking the bribe aside," Adrian said, trying to get away from the subject of Braddock taking a bribe to open an investigation on behalf of two investigative journalists, "Did you uncover anything about the companies in question?"

"I did look at these attacks that they alleged Doug was behind but I couldn't find anything that solidly implicated the man himself in them. I mean, sure, he profited off of each of these events, but there's no way they can be linked back to him. The SEC doesn't see anything in Doug's investments to be suspicious."

"He's really good at covering his tracks," Natalie said.

"I even managed to pull his phone records from his workplace, his cell phone, and his house," Braddock said. "On the cell phone, I found some calls that seemed quite unusual for the chief executive officer of a private investigation firm."

"What kinds of calls are we talking about?"

"Well I run the names of many of these guys that he's been calling," he said, "A bunch of them are hired Intertect employees. Those aren't suspicious, since for all it's worth, they're probably just calls regarding business. But then there are a bunch of guys on the list who, when I run their names, turn up to be career criminals. Most of them have stints for burglary, armed robbery, and car theft, to name the most common offenses."

"That sure is suspicious," Adrian said.

"And I'm thinking, 'Wow. What's the CEO of Intertect Private Investigations doing being in touch with so many criminals?' So I do more cross-referencing and I find that quite a number of these guys are people that Doug arrested during his days as a San Francisco vice cop."

"Really?" I asked. "I'm sure that O'Donnell must be paying them well."

"And when my wife and I did this guy's finances, I found something else unusual," Braddock said. "You wanna hear it?"

"Sure," Adrian said.

Braddock leaned in closer to Adrian, me, and Natalie.

"I found that Doug has a big assortment of offshore accounts in the Grand Cayman Islands, that he's been depositing money into, especially over the last couple of days," he said in a low voice.

This wasn't particularly shocking to me, Natalie, or Adrian. We knew from experience that if forensic accounting discovered that someone was wiring money into offshore bank accounts, they were probably sleazy or were criminals. Sleazy businesses might use them to dodge taxes, while criminals use them to launder illegally acquired money without arising suspicion. In my mind, O'Donnell was probably the latter type. It also explained why there were no fences in the city who'd heard from the man in the wake of the armored car job.

"Wow," Natalie said, "That's amazing."

"At least we now know where the heist money is going," Adrian replied, dryly. "Anything about these accounts?"

"I have a list of the accounts right here," Braddock said, reaching into his pocket. He produced a piece of folded paper and slid it to the center of the table. "Don't look at it until you're out of sight. I don't want to risk that the man has a plant here spying on us."

"All right, we can do that," Natalie said. She took the paper and slipped it into her purse.

"That's all I have for now," Braddock said, "I'm sure there's more to it than the names I came up with."

"There probably is," Adrian said. We sat there for a moment in awkward silence. I started to wonder why Braddock had been referring to O'Donnell by his first name while we'd been referring to him by his last name. After about a minute or two, Adrian broke the silence by saying, "Braddock, I know this is going to sound like a personal question, and you certainly don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but, it strikes me that you're acquainted with Douglas O'Donnell on a personal level. I mean, this whole time you've been referring to him by his first name rather than his last name. Ergo, you clearly know him for more than just being Intertect's CEO."

Braddock looked taken off guard. "I do know him. Well, at least, I thought I knew him well before those _Bullseye_ reporters bribed me to help them bring him down."

" _Thought_ you knew him well," Adrian repeated, "I take it that you know him on a personal level?"

"We were close friends back when Doug was on the force in the SFPD," Braddock said, solemnly, "Even though I was in Homicide and he was in Vice." He chuckled. "You know something? He actually introduced me and Leland to an informant he said was the secret to his success."

"You mean, Captain Stottlemeyer?" Natalie asked.

"Yeah, my captain," Braddock nodded, "This informant was this bartender guy in the Tenderloin named Bill Peschel. Doug claimed that Peschel was a successful snitch because of just how many criminals tended to blab about their deeds when they got drunk, often without knowing it."

"We actually know that guy," Adrian said, "Peschel, that is. He gave us information on some of our cases before he retired last year. Natalie, Kendra, you remember him, right?"

"Yeah, sure do," Natalie smiled.

"What a charming guy," I said, "Ratting on his customers. So, tell me something, Braddock: why did O'Donnell leave the force, then?"

"Doug felt disillusioned with the burden of wearing a badge a couple years back. It was around 2012, I think," Braddock replied, "Next thing I knew, he'd resigned from the force and opened Intertect as a massive PI firm."

"Maybe he felt more content being his own boss," Adrian replied, "That's always a possibility."

Braddock looked like he didn't seem comfortable talking about the subject.

"I had the guy out to my house, last Fourth of July," he said, musing, "Backyard cookout and all. My wife flipped the burgers, my son and daughter cut potatoes. Doug brought bay scallops. Every time I've made it since, I've taken to cooking them with the method he taught me. And the whole evening, we're laughing and trading stories…" Braddock snorted "…and yet, it's like he's a different person altogether. Not the charitable law enforcement donor I knew, but a ruthless criminal who engages in armed robberies and bankrupts other companies for his personal gain."

"And shoots firefighters in cold blood," I added on.

Braddock's face trembled. "You mean….. _that_ right there…." He pointed to one of the televisions covering the firehouse attack. "…..That's _his_ work?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is," Adrian said.

"I think I'm tempted to throw up," Braddock said, putting a hand on his stomach. "This is just…..awful."

I'd have probably had the same feeling of butterflies in my tummy too if I found out that someone I'd known all my life was not what I'd thought they were. By that logic, I couldn't blame Braddock for feeling this way knowing that a guy that he thought was his best friend had just carried out the deadliest mass-murder spree in the United States in that year.

"I think that's all we need from you for the moment," Adrian said. He handed Braddock one of our 'Monk, Davenport, Teeger' business cards. "Here. If you think that you have any other information about Douglas O'Donnell you'd like to share with us, please just shoot us a call. We're available at all hours of the day."

"Thanks," Braddock said, "And I probably will have more to share with you."


	26. We Have A Blast In West Portal

**The West Portal Explosion** :

* * *

Braddock got up and left the bar, leaving Adrian, Natalie and me to take lunch. I had to admit that they had really good burgers at the Westin's bar. They were about on the same level of quality as the ones that we'd eaten at the diner where the North Beach attack had happened, which I had to say was, impressive, considering that we also had to watch newscasters reporting on the shooting as we did so. They were very juicy, and I was left with a very full and satisfied stomach.

As we finished eating, I thought more about the new offshore accounts. I figured they might shed some light on what O'Donnell was up to.

"You okay, Kendra?" Adrian asked, noticing me lost in thought.

"I'm fine," I said, "Adrian, Natalie, I don't suppose we should start looking through that list of offshore accounts? I mean, I think it's perfectly safe to do so now. O'Donnell certainly isn't here and he probably doesn't have any henchmen here watching us."

"I put it right here," Natalie said. She grabbed the sheet from her purse and unfolded it, and placed it in the center of the table so that Adrian and I could also look at it.

It appeared to be a printed Microsoft Word table. It was formatted with several columns. The first column had a list of names. The second column had a list of job occupations for these individuals. The third column had a string of numbers that I deduced were probably the numbers for the accounts. The fourth column had a dollar amount, identified by the heading as being how much money was in that account. The fifth column denoted that account holder's current known address. The sixth and last column indicated when each of these accounts had most recently seen activity, whether as a deposit or a withdrawal. There appeared to be about 14 names on the list altogether.

"Jeez," Adrian said, pointing to the dollar figures, "Some of these guys have six or seven figure sums of money in their name."

"I did say that he must pay well," I said, "I guess that armored car loot really was easy to distribute."

"Has to be," Natalie said.

"What do we do with these accounts?" I asked.

"We call your dad, Kendra, and he'll put out orders for these accounts to be frozen until further notice," Adrian said, "If we cut off their funds, maybe we can get some of them to flip by promising to give them their money if they do."

"Sounds like a good promise," Natalie said, "You sure it would work?"

"It depends," Adrian replied, "I mean, we don't know how loyal every member of O'Donnell's organized crime crew is. They might be so loyal that they might rather die before they talk about their role. Also, so as to avoid going to prison."

"You think that's the case?" I asked.

"Kendra, O'Donnell's the most ruthless criminal that we've hunted down this year," Adrian replied, "He probably has that philosophy instilled into the minds of anyone who assists him in his crimes. That or he'll kill people who talk to the police about their parts. So that means treading on very thin ice here."

"Huh, I guess that's one way to see it," I nodded.

* * *

We ate the rest of our meals in silence. Even then, I was on edge, nervously watching the faces people entering and leaving the bar, in case one of them had a gun.

"You seem tense, Kendra," Adrian said when he next got a chance to glance at me.

"I'm fine," I said, "It's just, what if O'Donnell tries to send some guys here to kill us? What then?"

"He's not going to come after us here," Adrian said, "It's ludicrous. Why would he came after us in an area where there are a lot of cops?"

"I don't know," I said, "He seemed pretty content with shooting it out with police a few hours ago."

"But there are more people here, and maybe a few of them are armed," Adrian replied, "Just maybe."

"Not helping," I said. I stared off into space, thinking about the situation. "If only we could go somewhere else to get away from all this…"

"Where would you like to go?" Adrian asked.

"I was thinking, Chicago maybe," I said, "You know, maybe as a second honeymoon kind of thing. Adrian, our anniversary's coming up."

"You're right, Kendra, it is," Adrian said, nodding his head. "I'm curious, though, why Chicago? Why not Paris or London?"

"My uncle would be delighted if we went out to see him," I replied.

"Your uncle David is probably lucky that his Homicide division isn't dealing with criminals of O'Donnell's nature," Natalie said.

"It's still Chicago, Natalie," I said, "They got all that gang violence on the Southwest Side."

"You really love to dream, Kendra," Adrian said. I saw a smile forming at the edge of his mouth. "Maybe once we've stopped O'Donnell, we can go spend a few weeks in Chicago. Enjoy some deep-dish pizza, maybe catch a Cubs or a Sox game, do some videos on the 'L', or Metra, go up to the Sears Tower observatory-"

"Or the Hancock," I interrupted, "Listening to David Schwimmer's audio guide is so relaxing."

"Or that," Adrian said, "And help your uncle solve some murders on the way."

I grinned. "Oh, right, because death is always following us everywhere! Or dropping bodies for us to find!" I burst out giggling like a misbehaving kid.

"All we'll have to hope is that we don't end up dealing with another O'Donnell type figure terrorizing the city," Adrian said.

"Tell me you didn't just jinx us, Adrian!" I said.

"Oh, no, I did not," Adrian said. He was flirting with me.

"Yes, you did! You little-" He cut me off midsentence by suddenly pulling my face up to his and kissing me hard on the mouth. The sensation was exhilarating. And we'd already had several makeout sessions in the previous day. I mean, he was once again exploring my mouth with his tongue and I was doing the same thing to him as well. He was tracing around my lips and I was feeling the shape of his teeth. Adrian broke the kiss a moment later, if only because his lungs were ordering him to take a breath. He pulled back from me, but we still touched foreheads.

"Adrian, you are….quite a kisser," I whispered to him.

"Kendra, that was a reason you fell in love with me," Adrian replied.

That was when I heard my cell phone ringing. _So much for that intimate moment_ …. I checked the caller ID and saw it was my dad calling.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Are you three busy?" my dad asked.

"Yeah, we just got done with lunch and helping O'Brien out with that lead on O'Donnell's visit to the Westin St. Francis," I said.

"Good, anything come up?" my dad asked. "Fingerprints, whatnot?"

"Nothing so far," I said, "We, uh, also solved a homicide involving a diamond dealer. I'm sure he'll tell you more about that at a later date."

"Sounds fascinating," my dad replied.

"Is this important, Dad?" I asked.

"I think we've got a potential person of interest," my dad said, "We've been checking around the past few days to see if any of O'Donnell's employees have been living beyond their means. Sanchez and McKiernan just got a hit."

"Really?" I replied. "What is this hit?"

"A Jessica Jeensalute," my dad said, "29 years old. She's in charge of corporate security at Intertect's San Francisco office."

"Corporate security, huh," I said. "Tell me more."

"Uh, she's single, and lives alone with a six year old boy named Tyrus out in West Portal," my dad said.

The name 'Jeensalute' struck a chord with me. I distinctly remembered O'Donnell referring to one of the getaway drivers by the name 'Jessica' on his radio. This had to be her. It just had to.

"You say that she's been living beyond her means," I said, collecting myself, "What do you mean?"

"She recently purchased herself a new Mercedes convertible that costs around $5 million strong," my dad replied, "Not the sort of purchase that you'd expect someone who makes about $250,000 a year to make. At least not on my book."

"That's….we'll go check it out," I answered. I hung up and flipped the phone shut. Then something else struck me: I thought I'd seen the name Tyrus Jeensalute on the chart Braddock had just given us. I quickly picked up the sheet and scanned the list. Sure enough, there it was, fifth name down from the top, just below the numbers for O'Brien's, Murdoch's, and Donoghue's offshore accounts.

"What is it, Kendra?" Natalie asked.

"We're going to West Portal," I said.

* * *

West Portal is a neighborhood on the opposite side of the Twin Peaks from the Castro District and Noe Valley. It takes its name from the fact that it sits at the western portal to the Twin Peaks Tunnel that transports Muni Metro trains from the southwestern parts of the city across the hills to downtown and the Market Street Subway. It's a neighborhood with a very "village" atmosphere, due to its small size and abundant number of restaurants and family-owned stores.

Jessica Jeensalute lived in a two story off-red house on the south side of Ulloa Street at Forest Side Avenue. There was a green lawn out front and around on the Wawona side of the house, as well as a Mercedes convertible parked on the street between the curb and the L Taraval tracks, a few blocks west of West Portal Station. It was an older building from the neighborhood's pre-gentrification era, but it looked very well maintained such so that it looked like it had only been built the day before. It even had a nicely landscaped and manicured front yard.

I'm going to be honest here. I was expecting a rotting dump with peeling paint, a tarp covering a rain-induced hole, and the yard to be filled with trash, junked old automobiles and overgrown weeds. But, when you're a girl from a rich family who lives in a Russian Hill penthouse over 400 feet off the ground, well, let's just say that that's what you kind of like to imagine.

Adrian, Natalie and I pulled up in our Lexus and parked it across the street from the house.

"Let's do this," Adrian said as we approached the front door. He drew his pistol and checked it. "Ladies, are your pistols ready? I'm not assuming we're going to be facing trouble, but…."

Natalie and I nodded. We both grabbed our shoulder holstered pistols and checked our slides and clips.

"Kendra?" Adrian asked.

"Pistol check complete," I said.

"Natalie?" Adrian asked.

"I'm ready, Adrian," she said.

"OK," Adrian said.

We walked up to the front door, pistols drawn.

"Let's do this," Adrian said. Adrian knocked first. After a few moments, we heard the sound of someone scampering towards the door. The door opened to reveal a woman in her late 20s. She had long, brunette hair that went to about a quarter of the way down her back. She was wearing slippers, soaking wet, and wearing a bathrobe. I didn't need my detective skills to deduce that we'd interrupted her in the middle of a shower or she'd just finished taking a shower.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yeah! Thanks!" Natalie said. She immediately shoved Jessica off to the side and stepped into the foyer.

"Hey, hey, you just can't walk in like-" she said. She was cut off as Adrian and I immediately stepped past her into the foyer, then, like Natalie, turned to face her. Almost immediately, I was hit with the overwhelming stench of incense. It only took about five seconds to figure out why this was: because she was burning it on various tables and shelves all over the house, which looked like it was decorated right out of the IKEA catalogue.

"What's this about?" Jessica asked, flustered.

"I'll tell you what this is about, Miss Jeensalute," Natalie said, "This is about you and me doing our best to keep Adrian and Kendra happy."

"Who's Adrian? And who's Kendra?" she said. She looked confused. To me, she was obviously faking it, miserably.

Natalie gestured to me and to Adrian. "This is Adrian. And this is Kendra."

I smiled meekly. Adrian remained looking as stoic as I'd ever seen him.

"Adrian? Kendra? Are you happy?" Natalie asked us.

"Quite reasonably, Natalie," Adrian replied.

"And what would make you unhappy?"

"Gee, I wouldn't know," I said, pretending to think. "Oh, I know! I'd be unhappy if this lady who just stepped out of her shower to answer the door for us doesn't do what we tell her to do."

"And I assume that if you were to become unhappy, Miss Jeensalute wouldn't care for that?" Natalie asked.

"I'd say the answer is, 'no'," Adrian said.

Natalie turned to Jessica and grinned. "Well there you have it! Now let's go have a little chat, all right?" I pushed the door shut behind Natalie.

"Here we go, now," Natalie continued, putting her arm around a reluctant Jessica and ushering her towards the living room, "Right this way. We're walking, we're swinging our feet. There you go. Very nice. Very beautiful house you have here! Right this way, please..."

* * *

"What do you guys want with me?"

The three of us were sitting in the living room on a couch, facing Jessica, who was sitting in an armchair. Her six year old son Tyrus was off to the side of the room, playing with some building blocks. He didn't seem perplexed at the visitors who'd invited themselves into his mom's house.

Adrian, Natalie and I looked at each other.

"Well, we came to have a chat and a nice interview," Adrian said.

"By forcing your way into my house uninvited?" Jessica asked.

"It's not technically that if we're cops," Natalie said.

Adrian sniffed the air.

"Is he okay?" Jessica asked.

"Yes, he is," Natalie said.

"Miss Jeensalute, you are an employee of the Intertect Private Investigations firm, is that correct?" Adrian asked.

"Yes, I am," Jessica replied.

"What do you do there?" I asked.

"I'm in charge of corporate security," she said.

"Corporate security, huh?" Natalie asked. She scratched her shoulder. "What's that, exactly? Like, uh, classifying Intertect case files?"

"I oversee employee background checks," Jessica said, "And coordinate with the security companies that install our systems."

"And this is a full-time job I gather?" Adrian asked.

"We have offices in twenty five cities across the country, so, yes, it's full time."

Adrian looked perplexed. "Yeah, well, if I were you, I'd start looking to apply for work at other firms. In what states are you licensed as a private investigator?"

"California, Colorado, Georgia, Illinois, Iowa, New York, Massachusetts, Washington, Texas, Florida, Minnesota, Arkansas, Louisiana, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, Nebraska," Jessica replied, ticking off the states on her fingers, "I'm licensed in every state we have company offices in."

"And you are licensed to carry a firearm?" Adrian asked.

"Yes, I am, concealed carry," Jessica replied.

"In what states?" I asked.

"It would probably be faster to list the states I'm not licensed in," Jessica said.

"What firearm do you normally carry?" Adrian asked.

"A Walther PPK," Jessica answered, "The kind that James Bond uses."

"Can we see it, please?"

Jessica seemed to grimace. She ran her fingers through her wet hair. "Oooh, I can't."

"Can't, or won't?" Natalie asked.

"It was stolen a few days ago," Jessica said, "I reported it."

The mention that the pistol was a Walther sent a chill through my bones. I knew from some research that some PPK pistols were chambered in the caliber of the gun used to kill the firehouse dog a few days before the robbery.

"Pretty convenient," I said.

"But we're not interested in your firearm, Miss Jeensalute," Adrian said, "I'm more interested in why Douglas O'Donnell would hire someone like you to be in charge of the corporate security at his firm. I mean, considering how many people on his staff seem to have criminal records or ties, you seem to be a bit incompetent at doing background screenings."

"Uh…." Jessica started to say.

"What else do you for O'Donnell, Jeensalute?" Adrian asked. "He must need help running that crime syndicate of his, does he not?"

Jessica was taken by surprise.

"Crime syndicate?" she asked. "That's the first I've ever heard about. I don't know anything about that."

"Really?" Natalie asked. "'Cause we have three witnesses who will testify that Mr. O'Donnell was the leader of the gang that attacked Fire Company 10 just a few hours ago."

"Good for him," Jessica said, dryly.

"He killed over twenty people," Adrian said, "Firefighters, men with families, and children."

She shrugged. "I don't know anything about it."

I was outraged by her dismissive attitude.

 _Now you're just putting on a little farce here in a pathetic and very degrading attempt to keep us occupied while O'Donnell and his gang go out and kill more people,_ I thought. "Are you _really_ expecting us to believe you don't know anything about O'Donnell has been doing?" I said, in that calm, dispassionate, _conversational_ voice I generally go to when I get angry. "Or that you didn't have some role as the getaway driver?"

"Kendra," Adrian said quietly, rubbing my shoulder, "Please. Control yourself."

I took a deep breath.

"Sorry, Adrian," I said.

Adrian sniffed Jessica.

"You smell like nail polish, you know that?" he asked.

"Well I was doing my nails," Jessica said.

"I find that kinda amazing," Natalie deadpanned.

"There's no polish on your fingernails," Adrian said.

"That's because I _removed_ it, silly! It's the smell of nail polish _remover_ ," Jessica said, "I would have thought someone like you would have made that deduction. You really aren't that bright, aren't you?"

Adrian sniffed the air.

"Natalie, Kendra, do either of you smell gas?" Adrian asked me and Natalie.

Natalie sniffed. "Yes, sir, I think it is."

"That's incense you smell," Jessica said, "I like using it to put a very nice fragrance around the house."

"Great to hear," Adrian said.

Jessica stood up. "I'm going to get a cigarette. Would you like one?"

"No thanks," Adrian said, shaking his head, "I can't smoke and I have a fear of getting lung cancer."

"I don't want a cancer stick," I said.

"Well suit yourself," Jessica said, walking through the open kitchen door and temporarily out of sight.

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I turned to each other.

"Adrian, get her!" I said, clenching my teeth.

"What, for smoking in her own house?" Adrian asked. "Kendra, that's not a crime. What's a crime is being an associate of Douglas O'Donnell's."

"She's making me get the chills," I whispered.

"Come on, she's only doing it to needle us," Natalie said, "It's about keeping us thrown off the game. I think she's just trying to unnerve us."

"She's creepy, Natalie!" I said, "She's in a bathrobe and O'Donnell or his accomplices are obviously not hiding here! Can we just go, Adrian? She has nothing to hide!"

"Because she's walking around wearing little more than a bathrobe and presumably her underwear?" Adrian asked. "Kendra, that's how you usually look when you've finished washing."

"Well she's scary-creepy!" I said. "You refuse to even see me naked!"

"Of course she's scary-creepy," Adrian said, pulling me in closer. "She's involved with one of the most wanted individuals in this city. We're not going until we get information from her."

He pulled my face up to his and gave me a quick, hard kiss on the lips. If I'm worked up, sometimes Adrian will kiss me because that usually calms me down. I immediately heard myself exhaling deeply.

"OK," I said, "We stay."

* * *

I glanced at little Tyrus. He was giving a pretty fearful look in our direction.

"None of your business, little boy," I said, "Could you step out of the room, please?"

"My mom's told me not to follow instructions from strangers," Tyrus said.

I drew my pistol from my holster. I normally didn't like drawing my gun in the presence of kids, but I felt that this was an exception.

"Go, before I feel like I have to use this," I said, nonchalantly.

"Okay…." Tyrus slinked out of the living room.

Adrian's gaze fell on a file folder that was sitting on the coffee table in front of us. It had the Intertect logo printed on it.

"Hmm, I wonder what's in this?" Adrian said.

We opened it. It was full of pictures of what appeared to be an empty garage.

"That's-That's the firehouse!" Natalie exclaimed.

"I guess that she's the one who shot the dog," Adrian said.

"So why aren't we tying her wrists up?" I asked. I picked up my phone and quickly texted a message to my dad: _Send squad cars to Jeensalute house immediately_.

* * *

That was when Jessica returned from the kitchen with some Camel cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. She sat down in her chair.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"I don't suppose we could, you know, talk about the $1.5 million in your son's name?" I asked.

Jessica stared at him.

"Yeah," Adrian said, "It seems that uh, Douglas O'Donnell's got a bunch of secret offshore bank accounts in the Grand Cayman Islands that he's been depositing money into over the past couple of weeks. Like well, at least a dozen of them, maybe more. And, uh, well, the interesting thing is that many of them are in the names of certain people on his payroll, and a few are in the names of deceased individuals. There was, the, uh, the chief financial officer, that would be Edward O'Brien. Uh, there were a couple of lower down investigators in the rank and file. There was a woman at the Davenport Armored Cars facility down south, and a bunch of others. All of them guys that, must have been, getting paid off the books. Anyways, one of the names on the list was Tyrus Jeensalute. He's six years old, goes to a nice elementary school, and has no priors or convictions of any kind."

"Yeah, _totally_ clean," Natalie said, "Very cute, too. I would take him home with me if I could. And he's got, like, $1.5 million and change on deposit for him, which is quite a lot, actually."

"Now, my wife Kendra here?" Adrian gestured to me, "She took one look at that and she said, 'Jesus Christ, Adrian! This first-grade boy is muscle in O'Donnell's operation!' and I said, 'Whoa, whoa, Kendra, slow down there. Maybe it was _actually_ his dear mommy.' Impressive, no? That amount of insight?" Jessica was sitting in stunned silence. I had to bet she was taking in the realization that the SFPD had found out about the offshore accounts, and that the account was either frozen or about to be frozen to cut off access to her illegally gained funds. Adrian added, "Natalie, Kendra, I see she's not very impressed."

"Oh, I bet there's a reason for it," I said, cracking a smile, "She's thinking about all the money that's disappeared."

"Yeah, well, I mean, totally," Natalie said, "The government's going to seize every last hard-earned dollar you've received working for O'Donnell…unless, well, here's thing, Jessica, or Jessie?"

"Miss Jeensalute," Jessica said.

"Here's the thing, Jessica. Luckily for you, you haven't touched that money, to the best of our knowledge," Natalie said, "We cannot say the same for some of the other employees that are doing dirty work."

"So you better hope that one of these people doesn't roll on you," I said. "Or you're going to go to federal pound-you-in-the-ass prison. You know what they do to women in federal pound-you-in-the-ass prison, right?"

"Now, before that day comes, inevitably, you could do Kendra, Natalie and me a favor," Adrian said, "You can tell us who else is out there, and admit to us that you had a role in this morning's shooting attack at Fire Company 10 and in casing the place a few days prior, and if we like what you tell us, well, good things could happen for you and for your son."

"Tyrus might get to keep that money of his," I said.

"That depends," Adrian said. "Mostly on, you admitting to what we've asked you to admit to."

There was a long pause.

"I've never been to Fire Company 10," Jessica said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you have, and you were doing so casing the place on Douglas O'Donnell's orders," Adrian said.

She lit a cigarette. "What do you want me to do, confess?"

"Yes," Adrian said, sniffing the air, "I still smell gas."

She blew smoke in our direction. I had relaxed a little bit, but I was still pretty disgusted by this woman.

"You're making some pretty false accusations against me. Where's the proof I'm involved in this alleged criminal operation of Mr. O'Donnell's?" Jessica asked.

"This Intertect file folder right here," Adrian said, picking it up.

Jessica was staring at us.

"I see you've taken a bunch of pictures of a firehouse, Miss Jeensalute," Adrian said.

"Yeah, so what?"

"So what? We couldn't help but notice that the firehouse in question happens to be Fire Company 10, AKA the firehouse that was attacked this morning," Natalie said. "You mind explaining why you went there to take photographs?"

"Because I was hired by one of the firefighters there to investigate the death of their Dalmatian last week," Jessica said.

I chuckled.

"That's hilarious," I said, "We were at the firehouse right before the shooting this morning, and as far as I remember, none of them remember you."

"They're dead, what you claim they say doesn't matter," Jessica shrugged.

"We never said they were dead, Miss Jeensalute," Adrian said. He squinted. "And you know something? This whole time we've been talking, I have been unable to help but notice you have some scratch marks on your left cheek."

I looked at Adrian, then I looked at Jessica. Sure enough, there were tiny scars on her face below her left eye. She absentmindedly rubbed them.

"So what? One of my neighbor's dogs is a little friendly," she said.

"Nah, they appear to be from a Dalmatian," Adrian said, "The shape and pattern of the scratch marks is pretty distinguishable."

"You cased the firehouse, you killed a guard dog, and you stole a Jaws of Life power tool," I said.

"Look, we know what you did," Adrian said, "On O'Donnell's orders, you or someone else allied with O'Donnelle torched a gas station on Geary Street on Wednesday night while the armored car was being attacked. You made sure it would get attention and draw the crews at Fire Company 10 away. Once they were gone, you went to the firehouse to case it, in case there were any problems that O'Donnell and crew needed to be aware of when they attacked it for coats and whatnot. You snuck in, and started taking pictures. But they had a guard dog. It charged you, and wrestled you to the ground. It managed to scratch you once before you managed to pull your Walther pistol, and you shot it. You then fled the scene, knowing full-well that the police would dismiss it as a random attack. Subsequently, you stole heavy rescue equipment that was later used in Thursday night in the murder of your fellow colleague Martha Jansen."

"Say that I did do what you just said," Jessica said, "What proof do you have I was there?"

"Sparky the dog was shot with a .38 caliber pistol," Adrian said, "You say you carried a Walther PPK. Walther pistols are chambered in many different calibers. One of the calibers that the PPK comes for is the .38 ACP."

He cocked his head.

"I _swear_ I'm hearing a hiss somewhere!" he said.

"I'm just hearing this: blah-blah-blah-blah-blah," Jessica said, "All that from a gun holster? Ridiculous."

"Maybe, but the fact that the pistol I would think you'd keep in that holster is not there is suspicious enough," Adrian said, "And we can always ask the cops to compare the dog's nails with the scratch marks on your cheek."

"Without the gun, you can't link me to that incident," Jessica said.

"I'm definitely hearing a hiss!" Adrian said. The three of us stood up and began walking around the room, trying to figure out what the noise was, or for that matter, where it was coming. I saw Adrian put his hand on his weapon as if he was preparing to draw it. Natalie and I instinctively reached for our weapons.

"It is true, Jessica, that without a gun, we can't link the crime to you," Natalie said, "However, the fact that you said the firefighters were dead before we mentioned it suggests you were there this morning, in that Davenport Gas & Electric van."

"You don't have proof of that," Jessica said, answering Natalie's comment while still eying all three of us.

"Yeah, we do," I said, "O'Donnell referred to the driver of one of the vans as 'Jessica'."

Jessica looked out the window. I could see that several SFPD black-and-whites had pulled up in front of the house, positioned so as to block the street. All of them had on their red and blue roof lights.

"If you had all that, you would be arresting me when you came into the house."

"To be honest, we're just waiting for my friends in the district attorney's office to give us the OK to handcuff you and charge you as a participant in the shooting as well as a participant in the murders of Paddy McClellan and his wife," Adrian said, "In the meantime, we figured we might as well have a friendly chat with you. What you ought to be telling us now is this: what is Douglas O'Donnell planning? And would you really like to be rotting away in prison while the gang makes more money and flees the country?"

* * *

That was when three things happened, almost simultaneously.

The first thing that happened was that Adrian, Natalie and I looked into the kitchen at the same time. We saw a couple of lit candles on the counter. Then I noticed two jugs filled with gasoline sitting on the floor, and a big puddle of gasoline on the tile floor. And the third thing was that the dials for the gas burners on the stove were turned all the way to full blast, but there were no flames flickering. And in that split second, all three of us realized that it was a homemade bomb.

The second thing that happened was that Jessica bolted up from her chair, emitting a scream of fury, flicked on her cigarette lighter and tossed it into the kitchen.

The third thing that happened was that Adrian shouted, "GO! GO! GO!" with enough shock and authority that Natalie and I didn't second guess him. We bolted for the door.

"FALL BACK!" Natalie shouted.

"MOVE OUT!" I screamed at the same time.

We bolted out the door and took cover behind one of the police cruisers parked out front. We drew our pistols just as Jessica's kitchen full of flammable gas was ignited. The resulting spark caused a giant explosion that blew the house apart. A fireball blasted out of the windows and split the roof. It was intense enough that we could feel the scorching heat of the blast flying over us. A giant mushroom cloud shot upwards of 30 feet into the sky. Two patrol officers standing near the house were kicked through the air and thrown against the side of the same police car we'd used as cover, and set one of their shirts on fire.

I glanced at Adrian and Natalie.

"Are you OK?" he asked me.

I nodded.

I saw Natalie nod her head.

I heard another officer say into his radio, "Possible 10-80, Forest Side and Ulloa. Requesting backup"

Adrian, Natalie and I climbed to our feet. I could only hear the sound of car alarms ringing. I also felt my ears ringing with the sounds of the blast.

"We've got to get out of here," Adrian said.

I looked up and down the street as I gripped my pistol tightly. I saw what looked like a five year old boy lying down behind a pickup truck parked two spaces west of Jessica's house, bleeding from glass shards to one of his arms.

My hearing had been muffled temporarily by the explosion, such that I didn't hear the sound of a black windowless van screeching to a stop on the opposite side of the intersection, about fifty feet away from us, up by the corner.

As I looked at the wounded boy, another officer came around the cruiser and blocked my view.

"Are you-?" he started to say, but he was cut off by the sound of a pistol firing.

A bullet wound suddenly sprouted from the officer's right shoulder and he collapsed to the ground. I felt my face immediately turn dark purple with uncontrolled rage.

"Oh my god!" Natalie screamed.

"Shoot!" Adrian said. At the sound of the shot, we immediately jumped up, pistols drawn.

Just on the opposite side of the intersection, we saw a group of six gunmen standing by a Davenport Gas & Electric van, all armed with submachine guns. At the head of the group was O'Donnell, and O'Brien. I saw the two officers on the opposite side of the cruiser from us get up, pistols drawn.

As the officers were drawing their pistols, one of the unidentified gunmen fired a burst with a submachine gun. Both officers immediately dove to the ground.

"GET HIM!" I screamed.

Adrian, Natalie and I immediately fired in the direction of O'Donnell and his men. The gunmen fired back. O'Donnell lackeys #3 and 4 crossed over to the sidewalk on the other side of the street from the burning house.

The other patrol officers began shooting with pistols and shotguns, trying to drive the gang away.

"I'll get you bitches!" I screamed. Natalie fired three straight shots in the direction of O'Donnell, O'Brien, and unidentified gunmen #1 and #2. #3 and #4 fired their submachine guns at one group of officers. I climbed onto the roof of one of the police cars, and fired several rounds at the men across the street. They dove back behind an SUV across the street. I wouldn't let the heat from the burning house slow me down.

Adrian and Natalie continued to engage from ground level. Gunmen #1 and #2 took a few steps towards the middle of the street to get better aim. Two of the other officers who had been out front ducked out from behind cover with shotguns, rushed up next to Adrian and Natalie and fired blasts towards #1 and #2. #2 raised his submachine gun and fired a burst. Suddenly, as he squeezed the trigger on his shotgun, the brawnier shotgun cop collapsed, blood spurting from where a bullet had just grazed off part of his ear. He dropped his weapon and clutched the bleeding stump with his left hand, screaming in the most agonizing pain I'd ever heard.

"Cass!" his partner said.

"Oh no!" Natalie said. She and Adrian dove for cover behind another police car. The partner fired his shotgun two more times at gunmen #1 and #2, then one of the men fired a submachine gun burst. The officer fell, a bullet in his leg. Though I was still engaged with the guys across the street, I turned and saw O'Donnell leap out from behind the van and take aim at me with his pistol.

"Kendra, get down!" Adrian said.

I fired once, then promptly jumped off the car as O'Donnell fired. I hit the ground with my knees bent, reducing my chances of receiving any cuts or bruises. As the yells of other officers and gunshots and burning timber from the house echoed through my ears, I crawled through the maze of parked police cars towards Adrian and Natalie

"Kendra! Over here!" Adrian said, gesturing to me.

I reached Adrian and Natalie, who were crouching behind the trunk of a unit and reloading their weapons.

"How did they find us?!" I said.

That was when I heard submachine gun fire rake the side of the vehicle we were using as cover.

Adrian leaped up, spotted #3, and fired several times. This was enough to put that henchman down.

Adrian ducked down just as #1 ran up to help #2, back over near O'Donnell, provide cover fire.

"They must have been following us!" Natalie said.

Adrian and I stood up, fresh magazines loaded, and fired our pistols at #1 and #2. #2 immediately fell, hit in the neck. #1 immediately returned fire, making us duck for cover.

Bullets pounded the police car, shattering the windows. A tire blew on a nearby car with a loud pop. We continued shooting until our clips ran out.

"Damn!" I said. I ducked back down behind the police cruiser where Natalie had reloaded.

We hunkered down as bullets continued to riddle the cruiser. As we reloaded, I heard the yell of another officer getting hit.

Then there was complete silence.

"They are probably out of ammo," Adrian said, "And they probably are retreating."

My cheeks were flushed a dark purple. We stood up to our feet, looking nervously to see that the men weren't baiting us into dropping our guard. I peeked out and could see O'Donnell, O'Brien and henchmen #1 and #4 heading back to their van.

"You can get them," Adrian said. "We will get them."

I gritted my teeth. _I will kill you for this, O'Donnell_.

"Now then," I said.

We checked our pistols and broke cover.

"Oh, no you don't get away with this!" I said to myself. I promptly fired my pistol at one of the two henchmen still standing with O'Donnell and O'Brien. He was struck in the leg and collapsed. His partner promptly spun around to face us. Adrian, Natalie and I immediately opened fire on him before he could start loading his submachine gun. He jerked around like some of the firefighters that O'Brien had gunned down at the firehouse, and then he swan-dived backwards onto the ground.

* * *

It was probably because of the approaching sirens that O'Donnell and O'Brien didn't bother to resume the battle. They scrambled to climb into the back of the van as we ran towards it, shooting at them as we did.

The moment O'Donnell and O'Brien closed the side door behind them, the van rocketed away in the direction of West Portal Station, and disappeared out of sight.

I gritted my teeth in frustration as I holstered my pistol. _Why do you guys always manage to escape when I think I've gotten to you?_ I thought. At least those thoughts were set aside when I felt Adrian put a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you okay, Kendra?" Adrian asked. I turned around, suddenly feeling hot and bothered for some reason. Adrian seemed to detect it, too. Almost immediately, I threw my arms around him and kissed him as hard as I possibly could.

"Whoa, Kendra," Adrian said between kisses, "What are you doing?"

I pulled back from him, just as several SFPD units screeched to a halt in the intersection near where O'Donnell's van had been stopped.

I looked at Adrian's eyes and smiled. "I've got post-traumatic kiss disorder, Adrian. What else do you think I have?"

"A need to have displays of affection at very weird times?" Adrian asked.

"Maybe it's that," I said. I turned to look at Jessica Jeensalute's burning house.

"Oh, as if this day could get any worse," Natalie sighed, seeming mildly annoyed by the blast more than angered.

"It already got worse when the firehouse was attacked," Adrian said.

I took a deep breath. In that van, I imagined O'Donnell was having a couple of laughs at our expense.

* * *

This chapter takes hints from many different works. For instance, some of the dialogue in Adrian, Natalie and Kendra's questioning of Jessica Jeensalute is based off a scene in the _Breaking Bad_ episode "Madrigal" where Hank and Gomez are interrogating Mike Ehrmantraut and trying to find evidence that he participated in Gus Fring's drug network. Adrian noticing that Jessica was a participant in one of O'Donnell's crimes, and the house explosion, is based off the book _Mr. Monk Gets Even_. Lastly, the shootout is loosely based on the hangar shootout from _Face/Off_.


	27. The Game is Changing Now

The sun shined down upon a street that was littered with carnage. Police and civilian vehicles sat abandoned, with shattered windows and doorframes that had been raked with bullets. There were buckets of shell casings in the street, as well as several bloody and bullet-riddled bodies. The streets were clogged with a mix of police cars, ambulances, and every piece of equipment from Fire Companies 39 and 40 (the two fire stations nearest the house). The firefighters and paramedics on the scene handling triage had very grim expressions on their faces, no doubt still thinking about the firefighters that O'Donnell's gang had killed at Fire Company 10. But I had to give them credit: even with the loss of close to 20 of their own men, they were still able to maintain their composure and get their job done.

Adrian, Natalie and I were sitting on the hood of an intact SFPD black-and-white as we watched the fire department extinguish the remaining hot spots in Jessica Jeensalute's charred, but still standing house, and paramedics who were removing officers and civilians who had been wounded during the shootout, our second one of the day. It had been quite a bit of an effort to actually fight the fire. Because of the number of police cars filling the street, not to mention the crime scene investigators, the bodies, and the bullet-riddled vehicles, the fire trucks couldn't park right next to Jessica's house, but rather, had to run their hoses along the sidewalk from about a block away.

The three of us hadn't sustained any injuries, thank god. In fact, we had to shoo away the paramedics when they tried to give us shock blankets. Our status quo really was god: we had absolutely no physical injuries of any kind from either this shooting or the firehouse. But the same could not be said for most of the officers involved in this shootout. Many had taken bullets to very painful spots, such as their cheek or their jaw. I'd seen one of them lose part of his ear. A few had a combination of gunshot wounds and cuts from flying glass shards in the explosion. I was sure the emergency rooms at all of the major hospitals were overwhelmed now, with victims from the Laurel Heights shootout, and this latest shootout in West Portal.

Natalie looked outright dazed and was gazing at the house like she was in some sort of trance. It was if she was in another world. That post-shootout kiss I'd given to Adrian had calmed me down to the point I was able to smile naturally. I still felt somewhat bitter that O'Donnell had gotten away. You could read it from my body language, the way I had my arms folded across my chest, and the way in which I was fidgeting with my hands, my left fist hidden by my ex-boyfriend's tour jacket. I may be human and just Adrian Monk's wife, but this was getting borderline ridiculous. We'd been in three shootouts with Douglas O'Donnell and his men in the past twenty four hours. I'd seen more than a dozen different people get murdered in cold blood right in front of me in that time frame. We'd just narrowly avoided getting blown up by a deranged woman. The strain of every one of those fights we'd had with baddies in O'Donnell's employ was almost at a breaking point. In the span of a week, Adrian, Natalie and I got into more gun battles than most police officers can expect to see in their entire careers. Hey, Adrian's told me and Natalie that 90% of cops these days will never fire their gun even once in their career. Thank god that our social status made us exempt from having to fill out paperwork after every time we even pulled out our guns, what with the new statutes imposed after previous December's shooting of Mario Woods in the Tenderloin.

"O'Donnell, you son of a bitch…." I said as I saw the charred corpses of Jessica Jeensalute and her son being hauled out of the remains of the house in body bags and the CSI team entered the house to search for any surviving evidence. "I want to kill that bastard."

"I do too, Kendra," Adrian said, "It sucks, but I told you two, O'Donnell's troops clearly are so loyal that they'd die rather than give him up."

"He's got to be the worst criminal I've seen so far," Natalie said.

"What, H.H. Holmes and Hannibal Lecter don't cross your mind with worst criminals ever?" I asked. "I want O'Donnell dead, but those guys committed much worse offenses than he."

"One of those two was a con artist who ran a 'murder castle,' and one ate a census taker's liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti," Adrian said, "Sss-ss-ss-sss!"

Natalie and I smiled. Adrian's Anthony Hopkins impression was just what we needed.

"Besides," Adrian said, "Yes, the past few days have consisted of a few highly visible shootouts in broad daylight, at least one armed robbery, and the murder of a prominent bank chairman. But this pales to things like 'The Incident' that happened in New York City four years ago."

"I'll admit you have a point," Natalie said, "Aliens coming out of a portal in the sky are not the same thing as an Irish gang taking submachine guns to a firehouse."

"Two different things," I said.

My gaze fell back on Jessica's house.

"What do you suppose we do with the list?" Natalie asked.

"Huh?" Adrian asked. He'd momentarily been distracted.

"Uh, the list of O'Donnell associates with offshore accounts?" Natalie said.

"We'll send it to your dad, Kendra," Adrian said, "He doesn't have the authority to seize the money. What happens to the dirty money is up to the government to decide. I know your dad definitely can put some calls in to freeze the accounts. That might hamper O'Donnell's movements."

"Should we do it now or….?"

"I'd wait until we get back to the apartment," Adrian said, "Right now, let's deal with this mess here."

"Right."

"Speaking of which…" Adrian added, gesturing towards the henchmen bodies. Natalie and I looked in that direction and saw my dad approaching.

"Monk, Natalie, Kendra," my dad said as he approached us.

"Dad," I said. My dad looked like he wanted to give me a hug, but he saw the look Adrian, Natalie and I were giving him and thought better.

"You three look very good looking for someone who's just gone through something like this," my dad said, pointing to the remains of the house.

"Chalk it up to good luck, Dad," I said.

Adrian began stroking my back with one hand.

My dad cleared his throat, flipping open his notepad. "Look, I know that you're probably a bit shaken up by what happened and we knows you're probably eager to get out of here. But, uh, you are going to have to give an official statement."

"Yes, absolutely," Adrian said, "Just standard procedure, I suppose."

"So, let's start at the beginning," my dad replied, "You three, were, uh, inside that house, I presume?"

"That's right," Adrian said, nodding. "We were talking to the homeowner, a miss Jessica Jeensalute. She's in her late twenties/early thirties."

"Can you provide an explanation?" my dad asked.

"Do you want the short or the long version?" Natalie said.

"The more, the better," my dad replied.

"Well, we can do that," Natalie said, "She worked for Douglas O'Donnell."

"Oh, so this is tied to the shooting?" my dad said. "That's great. Might give us some more leads to work from."

"Yep," I said, "That's right."

"OK, so we get into the house," Adrian said, "And we detain Miss Jeensalute, who is at home with her six year old son Tyrus. First thing I notice about the suspect is that she's burning an awful lot of incense."

"Incense," my dad said, writing that down.

"And a big load of it," Adrian said, "Like, and I may be exaggerating here, enough to fill three ordinary sized bathtubs."

"So what did Jeensalute tell you?"

"We asked her some basic stuff, like, what she did at Intertect….um, if she was licensed to carry a firearm, that sort of stuff," Adrian replied. "Uhhh….we also think that she may have been a participant in the firehouse attack, and we also think she was responsible for the shooting of a dog at Fire Company 10 the same night the armored car was hit."

"There were some scars on one side of her face that looked like claw marks from a Dalmatian," I said, "Which is the kind of dog that was shot that night."

"Yeah, and her normal gun is a Walther PPK in what we think was a .38 caliber," Natalie said, "Which happens to be the very kind of gun that was used by whoever shot Sparky on Wednesday night and stole a pair of heavy rescue jaws for whoever killed Martha Jansen on Thursday. Are you getting that down?"

"I've got it," my dad said. He was writing like the wind. "No sign of the gun?"

"Kendrick, she claimed it was stolen recently," Adrian replied. "And by 'stolen,' I mean, 'She dumped the gun in the bay.' Dive teams are never gonna recover if we don't know where she did this. Anyways, during the interview, I, at the very least, thought on top of the incense that I smelt a gas leak coming from the kitchen."

"Gas," my dad said, "And I'm assuming this gas was the cause of the blast here?" He gestured to the house.

"Yes, that's right," Natalie said.

"So what do you see?" my dad asked.

"Well, it was when we told the suspect, er, Jeensalute, that we were just waiting for a courier to serve us an arrest warrant to charge her with complicity in the firehouse incidents that she lost it," Adrian said.

"All three of us looked into the kitchen and we saw a number of contraptions that in hindsight looked like elements from a homemade bomb," I said.

"There were two jugs of gasoline sitting on the floor as well as I think a tank of propane," Adrian added.

"Very powerful stuff, actually," Natalie said.

"She also had two candles on the counter," Adrian continued, "Both of them lit. I think they were Yankee candles."

"Oh, and uh, she'd turned every single dial on her gas-powered stove to full blast but we didn't see any flames flickering on any of the burners," Natalie added.

"Who, slow down there," my dad interrupted. "I can't keep up here." He'd been writing this whole time but occasionally he fell behind when we talked fast. "What did you do when you saw that she'd rigged the place to blow?"

"We ran as fast as we could to the front door," Adrian said, "She ignited the house with a lit cigarette lighter."

"Tell me about the uh, gunfight out here," my dad said. "When did the shooting start?"

"Uh, Douglas O'Donnell and some of his gang ambushed us," Adrian replied, "I recognized his CFO Edward O'Brien as among the men with him. And there were four other guys. We killed at least five of them, but O'Donnell and O'Brien managed to flee in a black Chevrolet Express work van, approximately a 2012 model. It had Davenport Gas & Electric decals on it. It's probably one of the other vans that was stolen in that break-in yesterday."

"Probably," my dad said. "Anything on the dead guys?" He made a slight motion with his hand towards the yellow sheets that were covering the bodies of the dead henchmen.

"No, nothing so far," I said, "I don't think they were carrying any IDs on them."

"Far enough," my dad replied, "Is there anything else besides that?"

"Here's what led us to Jeensalute," Natalie said. She scrounged around in her purse and produced the sheet of paper with the offshore accounts.

"Do you remember Paul Braddock?" Adrian asked.

"Yeah, kinda," my dad said, "Captain Stottlemeyer had him dismissed from the division a few years back over alleged instances of police brutality."

"We know that," I said.

"Well, it turns out that Braddock's actually a friend of Douglas O'Donnell's," Natalie said, "And, Denise Hossack, the, uh _Bullseye_ journalist, recruited him to investigate and he was feeding information to her and to Luke Reordan before they were killed."

"What kind of information is this?" my dad asked.

"It seems that O'Donnell's deposited money into some offshore bank accounts in the Caymans," Adrian said, "All in the names of some of his employees, and some known criminals, according to Braddock. Jessica Jeensalute was one of them. Or actually, there was this account in the name of her son Tyrus. Some of it seems to be money from the armored car but otherwise the accounts appear to have been used to pay these guys off-the-books for illegal work."

"And of course, it's a bit implausible to think that a boy that young could be muscle in O'Donnell's operation," I said, "So naturally we had to assume that it was meant for his mom."

"It's all on this sheet right here," Natalie said, handing the document to my dad.

"Hmmm, interesting," my dad said.

"He was very thorough in his research," Adrian added in.

"So I see," my dad quipped.

"So what can you do about this, Dad?" I asked.

"I don't have the authority to seize the money in these accounts," my dad replied, "However, I can get the banks on the phone and ask them to freeze the accounts so no one can access them."

"Good," I said, "What else?"

"We can also summon each and every one of the individuals on this list down to the station for questioning," my dad said, "I don't imagine that all of them will flip and tell us what we know, but maybe we'll catch a break."

"I don't think any of them will flip," Natalie said, "I mean, we tried getting Jessica here to talk and she blew herself and her son up rather than be arrested."

My dad nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Yeah, just…" Adrian sighed, "….Let's just tread lightly here, Kendrick. I know we get a lot of crime here in San Francisco. That's in part why Kendra, Natalie and I have such a high body count to our names."

"I was thinking the same thing," my dad said. He glanced at us, then back at the house. "I guess I better take a look at this for myself before the press shows up."

"Oh, yeah, they're gonna be on this like a bunch of hungry vultures," Adrian said.

He started to walk towards the house, but then he stopped and turned around.

"Oh, hey by the way, uh, before I forget," my dad said, "The coroner just ID'd the other guy you killed at the firehouse."

Adrian nodded. "What's his name?"

My dad checked his notepad. "Carlos Mitre. He's a muscle-for-hire type guy. A couple priors for some previous activity with various Latino gangs in the city. Nothing on O'Donnell's scale of criminal activity, but moving on up in the criminal world."

"Nice," I said.

"Very nice," my dad said, "I just wanted to let you know."

"Thank you," Natalie said.

I gave my dad a tight hug. He then walked away from us and headed towards the house. Then I saw Adrian turn his head a little bit, in the way he does when he makes a discovery.

"What was that?" I asked.

"It just occurred to me…..Jessica was burning that incense not just to hide the smell of gas, but also create more ignition points," Adrian said. "Incense is actually pretty combustible under the right circumstances."

"Oh yeah," Natalie said, "She was deviously insane."

"Well, more so since O'Donnell and a team of his were waiting outside to ambush us," Adrian said, "Here's what I'm guessing happened: Before we even got here, she rigged up her own crude, improvised gas bomb. She opened the gas burners all the way up, planted and lit incense all around the living room, to hide the smell of gas and create ignition points, possibly punctured a tiny pinhole in the natural gas line to the fireplace, and planted a couple jugs of gasoline and a candle in the kitchen. And this was all on O'Donnell's orders. That was her part of the operation. O'Donnell's was having himself and some of his men wait outside to shoot us if we made out of the house in one piece."

"And then she showers? Isn't that kinda risky?" Natalie asked.

"I think, Natalie, that she used an upstairs bathroom," Adrian replied, "Far away from any incense or fumes."

"How does her son not notice the gas?" I asked.

"His sinuses might have been pretty poor," Adrian said, "To the point that he couldn't smell anything. You know, like that guy Feldman, the guy who got tricked by his own pharmacist into blowing up his own grill on Friday."

"Well, Adrian, you saved our skins from getting fried," Natalie said, "Or shot."

"Well, I mean that's the most important part," I said, "I'm sure that charcoal deep-fried Natalie doesn't look attractive."

"Kendra…." Natalie said, rubbing her face with embarrassment.

I forced a grin. "Sorry, Natalie. I wasn't trying to imply anything. I was just saying, y'know…?"

Adrian shook his head. "I'm just going to say this out loud now, ladies: but maybe we should've had a SWAT team backing us up. Alternately, maybe we should have been headed for the car the moment she started smoking those cancer sticks of hers. I mean, Kendra, you're my wife, and Natalie, you're my assistant, and you're both family to me. I value your lives over anyone else's, and look how close we came to losing each other."

"We're alive, Adrian," I said, "And hey, we're also armed, so there's no real loss."

"Well, it doesn't matter, we are in deep trouble," Adrian said. The coroner's van that had Jessica Jeensalute's body was starting to drive away. "Jessica definitely was involved in what happened at the firehouse and the McClellan house, and may have driven the getaway vehicle. Now that she's dead, we'll have to hope that some of those other names on that list of offshore accounts might be willing to give up information about their role in O'Donnell's operation to save their own skins."

"Well that may be a good reason why she sacrificed herself," Natalie said.

"Maybe she really did love the money," I said.

"Let's just hope that those employees are willing to talk to us, though," Adrian said, "Given Jeensalute's willingness to blow herself and her kid to pieces rather than go into custody, I'd say the odds that other O'Donnell accomplices probably have orders to kill themselves, whether by _this_ or by cyanide pill, are pretty high."

I sighed. For some reason, I felt exhausted, like, really worn out by all that had happened: the firehouse shooting, the McClellan fire, the dead diamond dealer, and now a suicide-bombing and another shooting.

"You all right, Kendra?" Natalie asked.

"I'm fine, Natalie," I said, rubbing my eyes, "Look, could we, just call it a day, maybe?"

"It's only three o'clock," Adrian said, checking his watch.

"I know," I said, "But Adrian, in seven hours, we've been through two shootouts, seen God knows how many dead bodies – not that there's anything wrong with seeing dead bodies, and seen Douglas O'Donnell be a ruthless high-functioning sociopath. I'm just a complete burnout. Not to mention, it's my birthday. I deserve to have a bit of a break."

Adrian couldn't argue with that. He put his hand on my shoulder. "Look, I tell you what, Kendra, maybe you're right. It being your birthday, let's just call it a day and we'll pick up the investigation first thing tomorrow morning."

I looked up at him and smiled. "Oh, Adrian. That would be so nice." I kissed him.

"Besides, your dad's more than capable of handling the investigation by himself," Adrian added, "How else did he make lieutenant?"

I laughed. "Yeah."

"Let's get going then," Natalie said.

* * *

We climbed back into our own car, unscathed by either the explosion or the shootout, and drove back to our penthouse. We were back at our apartment about a half hour later. Once off our private elevator, I headed straight for my bedroom. Adrian was fidgeting with nervous energy, anxious for something, _anything_ , to break about O'Donnell and his gang, but we had nothing to go on until the forensics teams finished up at both the firehouse and Jessica Jeensalute's house. I for one hoped that wouldn't happen until the next day.

I went into my bedroom and lay down on my bed, very much still riled up by O'Donnell's two attempts on our lives, and seeming intent on doing everything he could to make our lives hell.

I knew in the years that I'd been married to Adrian, I'd known that my life would be in constant danger, but it had never been anything like this before.

Adrian, Natalie and I loved working together, and the jolt I got from hunting down killers and the potential dangers of this was probably a part of that. I had a genuine and very passionate love for Adrian and his detective work, and I hadn't minded the risks. But these shootings had steeled my mind to one objective: I was going to hunt O'Donnell down and kill him.

After a few minutes of simply staring up at my ceiling fan, a thought crossed my mind. Maybe Danielle hadn't yet known about Jeensalute's death. And as, technically, an employee of Intertect, maybe she'd even met Jeensalute personally.

I picked my cell phone up from where I had set it down on my nightstand and dialed Danielle's number.

"Yeah?" Danielle asked.

"Hey, Danielle, it's Kendra Davenport here," I said, "Um, this isn't a bad time, is it?"

"No, you aren't," Danielle replied, "Your dad asked me to come down to the station, actually. He said he wants to meet with me. Thanks very much for asking though."

"Good," I said.

"Is there something I can do for you, Kendra?" she asked.

"Yeah, um," I said, "Danielle, I need to ask you something. Do you know anyone on the Intertect payroll by the name of Jessica Jeensalute?"

"Jessica Jeensalute?" Danielle asked. There was a moment's pause on her end. "Yeah! I think I do! She's, the uh, she's the head of corporate security at Intertect. Has a pretty cute son. Why do you ask?"

I contemplated whether or not to tell her what Jessica had just done. _Here goes nothing…._ "Danielle, she just killed herself in a suicide-bombing," I said, "She, and her son, are dead. And she tried to take us with her."

"Oh my god!" Danielle exclaimed. I imagined at the other end she was covering her mouth in shock. "Oh my….god! Really?"

"Yeah, and I'm not kidding, Danielle," I said, "Listen, my dad'll fill you in."

"Why would she do such a thing?" Danielle asked.

"The best guess Natalie, Adrian and I have is that she was working for O'Donnell as an accomplice in the shooting of your boyfriend and the other firefighters," I said. "Possibly as a getaway driver, I dunno. But, according to your sister's informant Paul Braddock, O'Donnell's been paying a bunch of his employees off-the-books through offshore bank accounts. Jeensalute was one of these names."

"Boy," Danielle said, "Any other names?"

"I handed the information to my dad, you can ask him when he gets back," I said.

"I'll be sure to do that," she said, "Once I have a desk, that is. Anything else I can get for you?"

"No, that should be it," I said, "But listen, Danielle, um, Adrian, Natalie and I are going to be incommunicado for the next few hours. So, do not try to call us at all. Adrian's taking me out to dinner for my birthday and I need some R&R after what's happened today, y'know?"

"I understand, Kendra," Danielle said, "I'll try not to bother you."

"Thanks," I said, and I hung up the phone.

* * *

I took a deep breath and lay my head back down on my pillow. _What can we do now?_ I thought. There was no way O'Donnell was going to get to me, I thought, and I had to spend a few hours to kill before we went out to dinner. I decided to check my Facebook page to see if the shootings were trending. My suspicions were correct. The first few news items on my page had to do with the shootings. With headlines like:

 _"_ _UPDATE: 23 Confirmed Dead in Firehouse Massacre"_

 _"_ _Up to the Minute: San Francisco Firehouse Massacre"_

 _"_ _San Francisco Traumatized By Siege and Loud and Bloody Shootouts"_

 _"_ _President Underwood to Make Statement This Evening Regarding San Francisco Shootings"_

 _"_ _Airports on High Alert Following Mass Shootings in San Francisco"_

 _"_ _Multiple Casualties in West Portal Explosion; Suspected Links to Firehouse Massacre"_

 _"_ _San Francisco Mayor: 'This Violence Needs to Stop'"_

 _"_ _23 Killed in Deadliest Terrorist Attack in California History"_

 _Yep. Seems about right,_ I thought. _It's trending worldwide._ _Everywhere from here to Timbuktu._ Before I could ponder any further the implications this had on the investigation, I heard a knock at my door.

"Yes?" I asked. I put my phone down on my night stand.

"It's me," Adrian replied.

"Door's open," I said. Adrian came in and sat down on the edge of the bed next to me. I sat up to face him.

"I just want to be positively sure you were holding up, Kendra," Adrian said. "After all, it is a jungle out there, just going off the news reports."

"No kidding," I said, "I'm perfectly fine. What's the final death toll for today?"

"30," Adrian said, "I just got off the phone with the other detectives in West Portal. There were the five guys we killed, plus Jeensalute and her son. And then, factor in the 23 victims of the attack at the firehouse."

I looked at Adrian and smiled. "A perfect 30. Huh. That's better than nothing."

"You seem more impressed than horrified."

"Adrian, a day without at least three deaths is just dull to me," I said, "30 deaths? I'd say that makes me very happy, in a twisted sort of way that might get others to look at us weirdly."

"Death makes you happy," Adrian replied. He leaned over and kissed me.

"That's so sweet, Adrian," I said. "I mean, _fwoof_ , that's just life for me. Another day of our lives in a big city."

"Yeah, one of the most violent cities, if you can say that," he countered.

We spent a couple moments gazing into each others' eyes.

"I know we've been dealing with so much today," Adrian suddenly replied, "But, I was going to ask you at some point, Kendra, do you like your new necklace?" He pointed to my necklace.

I smiled. "I love it, very much."

Adrian returned the smile. "Clearly after all of this O'Donnell mayhem, you deserved a gift like that, and of course, taking you out to dinner, which is on me."

"Ah, yes, of course," I said, "Where did you plan on taking me, and Natalie?"

"It's a surprise," Adrian replied, "But it's a place where we're guaranteed that there will be no attacks from O'Donnell."

"Ah, I am so pleased," I said, with a slight French accent.

"You and Natalie will like it," Adrian said, "In fact, it was your dad who recommended it."

I snorted. "Ha, Dad has really good tastes."

"He sure does," Adrian said.

"What else can you tell me about this place?" I asked.

"Not much, but I'll tell you that it's got a great view of the city, and we're going there in about three hours."

"Seven o'clock," I said.

"We have three hours to kill 'til then. I don't suppose you have any ideas on what we could do to pass the time?"

"I don't know. Part of me wants to just soak in the bath all afternoon," I said, "Well, not all afternoon, just maybe an hour or so. They say anything longer than that and your skin dries out."

"Yeah, that's what studies say," Adrian replied.

"At any rate, as long as O'Donnell's out there terrorizing other people, I'd say, maybe do anything that doesn't involve leaving this apartment," I said, "Maybe anything that doesn't involve leaving the room here, too."

"That can certainly be arranged," Adrian replied.

I kissed him. "It always can."

"And look, Kendra, I'm not worried about O'Donnell finding us here," Adrian replied, "In fact, if he wanted to target us where we live, he'd have difficulty finding that out."

"Why's that?" I asked, smiling.

"Because technically, we don't live here," he replied. I stared at him. "I mean, well, you, me, and Natalie do live here. It's just, on any papers, this is the apartment of Jennifer Davidson, Natalie De Salvo, and Artemis Fowler; who are presumably just like us, but who are not us."

I stared blankly at him for a moment.

"I'm Jennifer Davidson?" I said.

"Yeah, you are."

"I would've probably preferred a name like 'Marybeth Dunston' or 'Kamila Davis,' Adrian," I replied, "No offense, but…." I took a deep breath. "…Sorry. Um, did you have any suggestions on what to do this afternoon?"

"We could watch a bad movie and riff on it," Adrian said.

"Oh, movies like _The Room_?" I said.

"Yeah, movies like that."

"Isn't James Franco directing an adaptation of the book behind the making of that crappy flick?" I asked. Being a movie buff, I can't resist the urge to know what's going on in cinema at any given point in time.

"Yes, he is," Adrian replied.

"We should go see _The Disaster Artist_ when it comes out," I replied. "I bet it's going to be a box office smash, given _The Room_ 's reputation as the best 'so bad, it's good' movie of all time."

Adrian and I chuckled. That was when we heard the faint voice of someone singing. Adrian seemed to straighten up.

"That must be Natalie," he said.

I slowly got off the bed and followed him down the hall to Natalie's bedroom.

* * *

Natalie was lying on top of her bed. I saw she'd stripped off her coat and her shoes, which were strewn on the floor. She also had earbuds in her ear, hooked up to her smartphone, lying on her nightstand. When we entered, she was singing along to one of many songs she had on her playlist, bobbing her head along to the music.

" _Steel rails, chasing sunshine round the bend,_

 _Winding through the trees like a ribbon in the wind_

 _I don't mind not knowing what lies down the track_

 _'_ _Cause I'm looking out ahead to keep my mind from turning back"_

 _"_ _Cause I'm looking out ahead…to keep my mind from turning back"_

Given the pause, I took that to mean Natalie had reached the end of the song. "Is that John Denver, Natalie?" Adrian said.

Natalie opened her eyes and turned to face me and Adrian. "Can't you two at least be courteous enough to knock?"

"You leave your bedroom door unlocked, and besides, there's only one way in or out of this apartment, so knocking is not really necessary," Adrian said.

"Still, it's common courtesy," Natalie said. She sighed and removed the earbuds from her ears, then propped herself up with her elbows. "It's that railroad songs album of his. What's going on, Adrian?"

"Nothing. Kendra and I just heard you singing in here, and, well, yeah, we just decided to pop in and see how you're doing."

"I'm doing fine," Natalie said, "I'm not going to let what we saw today at the firehouse get to me."

"That's good," I said, sitting down on the edge of her bed. Adrian sat down beside me.

"Yeah, right," Natalie scoffed. "So is there anything new to report? Anything on Miss Suicide Bombette?"

"No, although I've asked Danielle to do some background on her," I said, "She should have something for us by tomorrow morning."

"By tomorrow morning," Natalie repeated those last few words. "That's fine with me. I mean, Danielle's just getting into the hang of proper police detective work so that's practically cutting her a little leeway."

"I wouldn't worry," Adrian said. "After all, O'Donnell probably won't be making any moves within the next twelve hours."

"He's probably lying low for the next couple of days anyways," Natalie said, "Given the body count, I imagine there's a lot of heat out on both him and anyone else in this operation."

"That gives us a few days, at most, before he does something else," I said.

"Ah, that's reassuring," Natalie said, "Not to the public, but at least, knowing he's probably got other things planned."

"And when he hits, the three of us will be there to give him what he deserves," Adrian said.

Natalie closed her eyes and leaned her head back against her pillow. A moment later, she asked, "Kendra, Adrian, you know what I've been thinking about?"

"No. What?" I asked.

Natalie opened her eyes.

"I've been thinking about what things were like before the three of us met," she said.

"Really?"

"Yeah, helps to keep my mind off the O'Donnell case," Natalie replied. "Have I ever told you about, uh, some of my bad dating experiences?"

"No. No, you haven't," Adrian replied.

"That's because I've never felt a need to talk about them with either of you. There's one I actually don't remember that fondly."

Natalie flicked her fingers.

"It was around 1990 or so, when I was just another high school teen. My brother set me up with this friend of his named Craig Barnes. He was a nice guy. Sandy hair. Tan skin. And he'd undergone this surgery on his tongue a few months earlier. They uh, snipped some connection under his tongue that made it longer, and ostensibly cured some birth defect I had never heard of before."

"He underwent surgery to extend his tongue?" I asked.

"That's what he told me," Natalie said, "Anyways, so, one Saturday, he approaches me and just asks me out, right out of the blue. I was going through a bit of a dating dry spell at the time and I was like, 'What the hell? Maybe this will lead to a bright new future.' So I said yes."

"I'm going to take a wild guess here and say the tongue surgery is going to advance this story, is it?" Adrian asked. "You wouldn't have mentioned that unless it was important to the outcome of what you're describing."

Natalie nodded. "Yes, Adrian, you're right. I'm getting to that part. So, Craig takes me out for pizza at a local restaurant, and then he takes me to the movies to see _Total Recall_. And to be honest, I actually thought Jonathan had done me a favor. That is, until Craig was walking me back to my house at the end of the night. I was…just about to step through my door when he said, 'Now it's time for the Woody Allen part of the date.'"

"Wait, what?" I asked, confused. I'd never heard Adrian use that phrase during our first couple days together. And to be honest, I may be well-educated but I had no idea what the "Woody Allen" part of a date meant, other than it was named for the acclaimed movie director.

"Exactly, Kendra," Natalie replied, "I had no idea what the hell that was supposed to mean. I actually was about to ask him, 'What's that?' Or, I only managed to say the first syllable before he grabbed my head by both hands and kissed me. And I'm not talking the passionate kind of kissing that you two engage in, Adrian, Kendra. He basically rammed his tongue into my mouth with the ferocity of a SWAT team breaking down a door. I couldn't even scream or protest because his tongue had filled my entire mouth." She traced a finger around her mouth for emphasis.

"What did you do to Craig?" I asked.

"Luckily I still had the ability to control my own fists," Natalie said. Her face broadened into a smile as she continued, "So I socked him in the chest. Knocked him flat on his back. Then I kicked him in the side while he was clutching his chest. He sustained two cracked ribs. Spent about a week in the hospital."

"Good for you," Adrian said, "You make it sound like whatever he would've done, it probably wouldn't be pleasant."

"Well I know for a fact he wasn't going to molest me," Natalie said, "It gets weirder. I was suspicious about the claims Craig had made about why he'd undergone surgery. So, while he was in the hospital recovering, I manage to talk to the surgeon and he told me that it was an elective operation, one of those voluntary non-life threatening things."

"If I'm reading this story correctly, Natalie, I'm going to assume it ends with the reveal that Craig never had a birth defect in his mouth to start with," Adrian said.

"That's what I found out," Natalie continued, "He'd had his tongue lengthened so that he could, and I quote, 'Pleasure the ladies.'"

I scoffed. "Ick!" _I make out with Adrian multiple times a day, and he doesn't need tongue surgery to make a kiss more pleasurable to me._

"That was my reaction, too," she said, "I mean, seriously, I don't know anyone around who has a fetish for long tongues. I sure as hell didn't and never have since. I actually created a new rule for myself: on any future first dates, check the partner's tongue to make sure it hasn't undergone any modifications that render it more usable for pleasure than for function."

"And lucky for you, you haven't had any first dates in what, four years?" Adrian asked. "Not since I took you on."

"Which, as I recall, was you pretty much forbidding me from even going on dates, except for undercover stings, all because your former nurse had a tendency to date people who turned out to be murderers, Adrian," Natalie countered. "Honestly, there are days I wish you'd let me have the occasional date on my own, away from you two."

"Natalie, I have my excuses," Adrian replied, "Namely, if the three of us never leave each other's side, we can all be in one position and ready to roll when a homicide call comes in."

"With criminals like O'Donnell out there, I'd say kicking ass and stopping criminals trumps having a dating life," I said, "Just my honest opinion here."

Natalie gave me a look. "It also makes us very detached from society, yes."

"But it's a matter of necessity," Adrian said, "At least here we get the luxury of being able to talk about these sorts of trivial things. I do not imagine that we'd be doing this if we were down at the station."

* * *

While Adrian, Natalie and I were relaxing at the apartment, things were getting a bit hectic at police headquarters. My dad had returned from the scene of the shootout in West Portal, doing his very best to keep his emotions in check. It had been a long morning and afternoon. The police had been involved in two intense firefights that had left a trail of dead bodies that was seemingly growing bigger and bigger by the day, ever since the McClellan ambush. He had to admit, with the trail of bodies they'd left behind, O'Donnell and his gang were more like terrorists than bank robbers. And he knew that with the President in town and the Democratic National Convention probably being postponed, there'd be more pressure on the cops to catch the gang. So as he headed into the station, my dad decided that it would be in everyone's best interests to bring the FBI in on the case. There was no way the SFPD could handle O'Donnell by themselves, even with Adrian, Natalie and me doing a lot of asskicking against the organization's henchmen.

The squad room of the Robbery/Homicide Bureau was packed, with virtually every one of the detectives in my dad's unit sitting at their desks, occupied by either their phones or their computers as they handled the O'Donnell manhunt. The only empty desk was that assigned to Lieutenant Disher, and that's because he'd been shot in the firehouse gun battle. None of the detectives paid any attention to my dad, except for the one outside his office, Detective Lindsey Kilgrave, whom also functioned as a secretary for my dad. "Hey, lieutenant," she said, getting up from her desk.

"Hey Lindsey," my dad said. "You look very bright."

"Just can't

"Bastards," Lindsey scoffed, "You know, my sister was going to visit tomorrow. I had to tell her, 'Nope, don't come to San Francisco, Jessica. It's a madhouse down here.'"

"I'm sorry," my dad said. "Anything new?"

"No sign of the vans yet," Lindsey replied. "We've alerted every patrol unit in the city, so hopefully that turns something up."

"Widen the net," my dad said, "We need to find the vans ASAP."

"Will do," Lindsey said.

"Oh, and uh, Lindsey," my dad added, "I need you to contact the chiefs of police in every force within 50 miles of here. Tell them to powwow with us tomorrow morning."

"Got it, sir," she said.

"Good." My dad turned to head into his office.

"Oh, and sir, you have a Miss Danielle Hossack here to see you."

"I'm expecting her," my dad said.

"She's right inside," Lindsey said.

"Thank you, Lindsey."

Lindsey sat down while my dad entered his office. Danielle was lounging on the office couch, looking at her smartphone. She was looking at her Facebook page and was somewhat dismayed that the shootings were trending.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Danielle," my dad said.

Danielle got up and walked over to take a seat in one of the chairs behind my dad's desk. "It's no problem. Not that I have anywhere else to go until some leads come in."

"That may be a while given we're still in the preliminary stages of this part of the investigation," my dad quipped.

"I guess so. This is a nice office, by the way."

"Thank you," my dad reclined a bit in his chair. "It comes with the territory."

"May I ask what you've summoned me here for?" Danielle asked.

"Danielle, I take it you're a very good investigator," my dad said, "Based on what Monk and my daughter have told me."

"Kendra speaks highly of me?" she asked.

"Yeah, she does," he said. "Did she tell you anything about this division and what we do here?"

"I thought it was self-explanatory," Danielle replied, "This is the Robbery-Homicide bureau, which investigates murders and crimes like the kind that O'Donnell commits."

"Good, so you know what we do here," my dad said. "I assume you have a private investigator's license."

"Yes, I do."

"Are you proficient in the usage of firearms?"

"Yes. If by 'yes,' you mean whatever target practice I did yesterday at the Lake Merced firing range. Mr. Monk and his gals took me out there. I think I'm a pretty good shot, in spite of having to take at least four tries to get through the obstacle course."

"That's a pretty difficult one," he replied, "But you managed. Of course, you were dealing with stationary targets and not guys with automatics, but that's beside the point."

Danielle looked perplexed by the way my dad was asking questions. "Excuse me, Lieutenant. I know this is going to sound like a stupid question, but….is this a job interview of sorts?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You're asking me questions about my qualifications," Danielle said, "Firearms training, my PI license, and such. What's going on here?"

My dad took a deep breath. "Danielle…It's because of the firehouse shooting. With O'Donnell on the loose, we need to have someone who's worked at Intertect on my team, someone who might be able to help us bring him down. Given how highly my team seems to regard you, it makes sense to recruit someone who knows O'Donnell very well. Someone who might be able to tell us more about his actions, habits, places he goes to regularly, people he sleeps with, that kind of stuff. "

"That's a lot to know," Danielle countered, "I mean, I don't know much about any habits or places O'Donnell frequents, but I know a lot about women he's slept with."

"You don't have to tell me-"

"Like, practically every female operative Intertect's ever employed has slept with him," Danielle said, "It's scary. I, of course, never have slept with him although I've heard he's good in bed."

"That's good," my dad said, "Maybe you could get me in touch with some of these lovers and ask if O'Donnell's ever said anything to them post-coitus that might be worthwhile."

"I can do that," she said, "What about recruiting me?"

"We're actually a man short here in this bureau," my dad said, "One of our lieutenants was shot during O'Donnell's attack on the firehouse this morning. That would explain the empty desk with the flowers on it that you saw outside as you came in."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Danielle said, "I think Mr. Monk mentioned something about that."

"Well it's probably going to be a couple weeks before he's even coming back to work," my dad said, "So I was thinking that maybe you could take up a post at that desk."

"Sure!" she replied, "Why not? He won't mind, will he?"

"He's at SF General right now, still in surgery," my dad replied , "I doubt he's in a position to comment on the matter so I'm doing it without going through him first."

Danielle stood up. "Thanks a lot, lieutenant. Do I get a badge like that one on your belt to go with it?"

My dad tapped his badge. "Ordinarily you'd have to go through the police academy, and then about two or three years in a patrol car, to get a badge like this. However, I keep a few spare ones in the office right here for special circumstances where I have to work around the chief."

My dad opened one of the drawers in his desk and pulled out a gold detective's badge. "This is a Detective Third Grade badge. This is the rank given to officers who've been recently promoted into the Investigations Bureau." He tossed it across his desk to Danielle, who caught in her left hand.

"Oh, wow," she said, feeling the engraved SFPD emblem on the surface with her fingers. "It's really shiny."

"So officially, when you wear that thing, you will be Detective Third Grade Danielle Hossack," my dad continued, "Oh, and also there will be some references we can fabricate at a later date to support this lie."

"What's the pay grade like for this rank?" Danielle asked.

"It's a rank up from patrol cop and probably a step down or two from whatever O'Donnell's payroll earned you," my dad said, tapping his desk, "But you'd have an easier time getting people to give up information to you. I mean, with that badge, they'll be more compelled to talk to you, as opposed to just telling you to buzz off."

Danielle chucked. "Hehe. Well I guess official cops do have perks that PIs don't, after all. Sometimes I wish I'd gone to the academy rather than to college."

"Officially, since it's a Sunday, you'll start tomorrow," my dad said. "Your first day will probably consist of getting acquainted with each of the detectives in my bureau, all of whom I think will welcome you with open arms."

"That's reassuring."

Danielle stood up.

"So do we have an agreement?" my dad asked.

Danielle smiled and shook his hand.

"Yes, sir. Absolutely."

"Then welcome to the force, Detective Hossack," my dad said, putting on a smile.

"It's an honor, sir."

* * *

 **A/N:** Yeah, Kendra's dad would probably get in trouble for what he's doing, but, look, he's kinda like Hank Voight from _Chicago PD_ when it comes to playing by the rules.


	28. A Romantic Birthday Dinner

Honestly, this Sunday had been one of my most exciting birthdays, and involved quite a lot of mood swings. A day that started off with firefighters being murdered in cold blood, followed by the charred corpses of the El Dorado Trust bank chairman and his wife, a dead diamond dealer, nearly getting blown up by an O'Donnell associate, and now, if I haven't bored you, a romantic dinner.

Look, unaccustomed as I am to talking about my romantic life, I know that there are times when I can talk about what Adrian, Natalie and I do that isn't related to one of our cases. This is one of those times.

* * *

To be honest, if it weren't for the familial connections that Natalie and I had, we probably wouldn't have been able to do it. In San Francisco, the Davenport name has a lot of pull when it comes to getting your way. It's a name that practically signifies 'rich and with a lot of money to spend', except when you're on police business.

* * *

Adrian, Natalie and I ended up going out to Elevation, located on the 39th floor of the Marquis Hotel at Mission Street and Fourth Street. The Marquis itself was opened about a year after I was born, on October 17, 1989, coincidentally the same day as the Loma Prieta earthquake. Having been built to stronger safety standards, the only damage the building sustained was a single shattered glass window.

Now, Elevation itself is a unique place. It's located up top, 400 feet high, and prides itself on the views you get. You can see for miles, southwest towards the Twin Peaks, or southeast towards SoMa and SFO (the other directions, your view is blocked by skyscrapers in the Financial District).

Adrian, Natalie and I made a point of showing up in the same clothes we'd been wearing for the duration of the day. I could tell something was up when we got off the elevator and I noticed that, for a Sunday evening, the place seemed unusually deserted. I'd think that an expensive/trendy restaurant like this, one I'd read about in magazines and the _Chronicle_ 's Dining section, would be kinda busy on a Sunday night. But there wasn't a soul there except the maître d at the front desk.

"Evening," Adrian said, getting the maître d's attention. He looked up and seemingly recognized us right away.

"Right this way, please," he said.

Adrian, Natalie and I were seated at a circular table on the southwest corner, giving us the view of the sun setting behind the Twin Peaks and Mount Sutro. As I was taking my seat, which faced towards the windows and Adrian, a weird feeling crossed my mind – there was no way we could be the only ones eating dinner here tonight by pure chance.

"Adrian, Natalie," I said, cautiously, "We're the only three guests in this restaurant."

"Yes, Kendra, thanks for pointing that out," Adrian replied.

"….Is it normally this deserted on a Sunday night?" I asked.

Adrian and Natalie looked baffled by my question. I could tell though that they already knew the answer. "Ummm, no," Adrian said.

"Unless you're a billionaire's daughter in which case you could make an argument that money was thrown at some important people," Natalie said.

For some reason, I chuckled. "You used the Davenport name to buy out a restaurant that normally has a six month waiting list, just for my birthday? Talk about corruption in the finest," I said.

Adrian laughed. "Corruption, Kendra? Corruption is politicians and crooked cops misusing their positions and authority for personal gain. Davenport money buying out a restaurant just for your birthday is probably not exactly corruption since no one loses when the money changes hands. It's more like a grand romantic gesture, you might say."

"If you say so," I said.

"I'll admit, it's not exactly the same as bribing a sky-writer to spell out 'Happy B-Day, Kendra!', which would draw unnecessary attention to us from prying eyes, but it's close enough," Adrian said.

I smiled at Adrian. He reached his hand across the table to squeeze my hand.

"I can tell you've definitely enjoyed the action today," he said, "You've been beaming like that ever since we left Jeensalute's place."

"I dunno. I think it's a combination of our love for each other and I might still be hopped up on adrenaline," I replied.

"The two do go hand in hand, Kendra," he said, "I'm just pleased to see that you're still incredibly happy in spite of everything."

"Davenports always have sunny dispositions," Natalie said.

* * *

After having had a second shootout with Douglas O'Donnell's associates, I felt particularly ravenous, so I went with a medium-rare steak-frite – strip steak and French fries. It just felt appropriate. Well, to be fair I think I was also interested in the fact that the menu said my steak came from cows that are bred to not just have a desire to be eaten, but be capable of vocally expressing it as they enter the slaughterhouses. The cow's "obituary", as I saw it, also said that he'd never consumed any artificial-growth hormones of any kind. Natalie and Adrian must have felt the same as me, given they also ordered steaks. All three were out within 20 minutes, which was no surprise given we were the only three people there. I asked our waiter if the potatoes for my frites used to be sentient and capable of free speech. He stared at me momentarily like I had a wart on the bridge of my nose.

"He sure takes himself seriously," I said as he left.

"Yeah, he does," Adrian said. "Cut him a break, Kendra. He doesn't have your sense of humor."

Natalie did a brief glance out the window. "Isn't this the hotel where the _Jeopardy!_ host sprained his leg chasing a burglar out of his room a couple years back?" she said as I was starting to cut into my meat.

"Yes, Natalie, you're right," Adrian replied, "He was confined to his podium for a couple weeks of tapings."

"Bummer," I said.

"The 911 call he made when reporting the burglary is what I remember most about it," Adrian said.

"Tell me about it," Natalie said, "I thought the fact that Alex Trebek was almost burglarized was the best part."

"Ah, well, he calls 911 afterwards," Adrian said, "And when the dispatcher asks him to give his location, he says, 'Erected in 1989, this San Francisco hotel became famous for its distinctive jukebox appearance.'"

"What is the Marquis Hotel?" I said, realizing where this was going.

"Correct for $1,600, Kendra! Go again," Adrian said in a Trebek-voice.

Natalie and I burst into fits of laughter.

"You're funny, Adrian!" I said. "How do you do that?"

"Admittedly I never heard the original 911 call, but that's what I imagine a 911 call from a _Jeopardy!_ host sounds like. You know, they can never switch out of game show hosting mode."

"Well, your reenactment seemed more convincing to me," Natalie laughed.

"So, if he was a McDonald's cashier, he'd deliver orders to the cooks by saying, 'This burger has two patties, three buns and secret sauce,'" I said, "And the cook would be like-"

"And the cook would be like, 'What is a Big Mac?'" Natalie interrupted.

"Correct for $200," I said.

"But, seriously, this building does look shaped like a jukebox from some angles," Adrian said, "Herb Caen from the _Chronicle_ was one of the first to criticize the architect for that."

"What can you say, it's a matter of opinion," I said, taking a sip of my wine. "Besides, it's not like this is the only building in the world shaped like a jukebox in a Waffle House diner."

"Thought these were very rare," Natalie said.

"Ah, well, you're wrong, Natalie," I said, "There's a wing of the Pop Century Resort at Disney World that's shaped like a jukebox."

"Yes, but that's intentionally designed to invoke the design of the musical device itself," Adrian said.

I sighed. "Okay, point taken."

* * *

We spent the next few minutes eating in silence. I spent the time savoring the juices from my steak, while my mind pondered about other things, like the case proper, or if the shooting was going to alter the schedule of the President's visit. We were each finished eating within a half-hour. The rest of the time we were eating, there wasn't that much in the way of significant conversation, so it's not worth mentioning here.

* * *

"Adrian, I know this is going to sound crazy, but, do you really think O'Donnell wants to kill us?" I asked as our waiter was clearing away our plates.

"I honestly don't think so, Kendra," Adrian said, "I mean, look at the three of us. I'm sure that if O'Donnell wanted us dead, he'd have done it by now."

"What would he be trying to prove?" Natalie asked.

"Perhaps he sees us a challenge," Adrian said, "He wants to be one step ahead of us, thinks we're a great adversary. That might make him more dangerous in my book."

"Does he remind you of any of our past cases?" I asked.

"Not that come to my mind right away," Adrian said, "He is still kinda like Professor Moriarty, though."

I took another sip of my wine, then took a deep breath. "So what do we do tomorrow to bring him down?"

"I presume forensics is working overtime on the weapons recovered off Hamada and Mitre," Adrian replied, "Presumably, we'll get a hit or two on fingerprints."

"Do you think that's going to go anywhere?" Natalie asked.

"Maybe not on the gunmen," Adrian said. "We saw O'Donnell and his crew were wearing gloves. I'd imagine that there might be fingerprints, though, from whoever sold the guns to them. So, we're talking about one of those gangland gun runners."

"Those can't be easy to come by," Natalie said.

"I'd say it's worth a shot to find this arms dealer, wherever and whoever he is," I said, "If we can cut off O'Donnell's access to weapons, perhaps he'll be forced to modify his upcoming plans, making it easier for us to stop him."

Adrian nodded approvingly. "Wise thinking, Kendra. But O'Donnell's a former cop and I imagine that if we brought down his current dealer, he'll probably just switch to another one like that." He snapped his fingers as a demonstration.

I sighed. "Wishful thinking, indeed."

"For all we know O'Donnell uses multiple dealers and probably is so tight-lipped that his cronies don't even know who is who in the network," Natalie said.

"Some guys just get more complicated the more you dig into them," Adrian said, "In fact I'd say most people are like that."

I took a brief glance at the TV over the bar. It looked like the President and the Mayor were speaking together on the steps of City Hall. The TV was muted, so I couldn't hear what they were saying.

"Looks like Underwood's giving a speech about what happened at the firehouse," I said, taking another sip from my wine.

"So he is," Adrian said. "Not that I'm surprised. I think he's going to take O'Donnell's rampage and twist it to suit his gun agenda. Sure will be helpful in a couple of weeks when the DNC takes place."

"That's the part I hate the most," Natalie muttered.

"What is?" I asked.

" _That_ , Kendra," Natalie sighed and pointed at the graphics on the bottom of the screen. All of which, as far as I could tell, were things about the shooting.

"It's barely been twelve hours since the shooting and already he's politicizing it!" she said, "Innocent people are dead! Multiple cops are in the hospital because of O'Donnell! Just once, I wish these political fatcats could wait a few weeks before pushing another biased agenda down our throats."

"It's America, Natalie," Adrian said, "Everything is politicized these days. From what we eat at our apartment to the decision to buy this joint out. You name it, you can probably spin a political agenda out of it."

"Yeah, right, like nine innocent black subjects get gunned down in a Charleston church and suddenly there's a whole debate about Confederate flags," Natalie said. "ISIS terrorists stage events in Paris and Brussels, and Raymond Tusk is suddenly advocating for the banning of all Muslims from entering the US. As much as I care about human life, when a person's life is used to push an agenda, it's like they're no longer a person anymore. All they are is just another name. Another name on another tombstone in the Colma cemetery, used as an object of a hopeless cause."

"You make a good point, Natalie," Adrian said, "Every time there's another gun control debate, like after that Goodwin guy attempted to kill the President back in March, I have to be like, 'Yeah, talk all you want. Everyone in this department knows that criminals will continue to have access to firearms.'"

I wasn't contributing to this little conversation because I just despise politics, except when it comes to the information we need to know for the sake of a criminal investigation.

"Adrian," I interrupted, "Can we change the subject and talk about something else? I'm not exactly up for a political talk on my birthday."

Adrian turned to me. "Sorry, Kendra."

I nonchalantly sipped at my wine. "Hey, today probably has been the best birthday I've ever had. I'm going to make the last of every second of it. So, no politics, please? I'd appreciate that."

"Given you've spent most of the day looking more aroused by violence than anything, I'm not surprised." Natalie shook her head in bemused disbelief.

"What was that, Natalie?" I looked at her and smirked.

"After every fight we've ever gotten into with O'Donnell or the potato heads on his payroll, you always look like you're about to rip off your clothes and have your way with Adrian here," she replied, "Of course, it never progresses beyond heavy kissing."

Adrian and I gave sheepish looks at each other.

"Oooohkay, yeah, well, I get turned on by physical violence," I said, "Look, sex is for people who can take the time out of their day to insert their baton into their lady's rectum. We don't have that time. And if we're never gonna engage in sex, I might as well find something else to get off on. Blame my mom for passing this trait down to me."

"Our decision to never engage in coitus is simply a preference," Adrian said, "Also the fact that typically a romp ends with one or both fornicators passing out for a couple hours. That's not exactly very good when it comes to a high priority police investigation. Not to mention that we lack the appropriate bed sheets necessary for such a deed."

I looked at Adrian and smiled. "Oh! The, uh, the His-'N'-Hers Blanket."

Natalie looked at us a bit sheepishly. "Geez, I wonder why those aren't made."

"It's a TV thing, Natalie," I said, "His-'N'-Hers Blankets: Because his chest…" I pointed to Adrian "….is as warm and attractive as your chest…" I pointed to Natalie "…is hideously repulsive and morally offensive."

Natalie gasped in mock horror and leaned back in her chair. " _I'm_ morally offensive? Kendra!"

"I'm joking!" I laughed. "But seriously, you know how I took a course on media and communications in college? One thing we discussed was the stringent guidelines the MPAA has about female nudity."

"Who, for the record, come off sounding like a bunch of hypocrites when you think about it length," Adrian added in.

"They aren't against the idea of sex," I said, "They'd be totally okay with you showing a shot of a truck going into the Robin Williams Tunnel or a rocket blasting off. But they just don't like it when women's breasts or men's genitals are shown on TV or film. You know, a film can get an R rating for just have _nine frames_ of female nipples. So they cheat."

"I can't imagine how that works," Natalie said. She sipped at her wine and glanced out the window.

"That's the problem with this," Adrian said, "We all know, from sleeping by ourselves in our own bedrooms, that when you pull the sheets up over you, the whole sheet comes with you. It would be…..impossible and, dare I say it probably very uncomfortable, to rearrange bedsheets so that they only go up to the guy's waist, but also up to the woman's armpits. How they do it is an exercise in theory probably harder to resolve than catching Douglas O'Donnell. Because of that, the only logical conclusion is that there is a store in fantasyland sells L-shaped blankets."

"They must turn a tidy business," Natalie replied. "Wonder what the secret is in real life."

"You probably don't want to find the answer," Adrian said.

* * *

After a few more rounds of wine, Adrian, Natalie and I left the bought out rooftop restaurant at around 9:30, but not without leaving behind a nice size check (made out from Natalie's bank account). As we drove back to the penthouse, I was left thinking, _O'Donnell attacks aside, still the best birthday ever._

* * *

We were getting off our apartment's private elevator about twenty minutes later. While Natalie went upstairs to her bedroom for a bath and some late night reading, I immediately headed for the living room, and came to a stop by the windows overlooking the city. The city looked absolutely gorgeous at night. I could see every building from Downtown to Fisherman's Wharf below us all lit up, window lights twinkling. Across the valley, on the other side of North Beach, I could see Telegraph Hill, with Coit Tower on top of it. It looked like a red finger, like it was dipped in blood and then lit up with a spotlight. And in the far distance, I could see the cable-stayed bridge that comprised the Transbay Bridge's eastern span. And way beyond that, I could see the lights of Oakland. It also looked like it was illuminated bright red. And so was the spire of the Transamerica Pyramid. _They're not normally lit up red. Normally they're lit up a standard yellow. Maybe they're paying tribute to the firefighters that were killed_ , I thought. I didn't have much time to dwell on that before I felt Adrian's fingers slipping around my left hand.

"I know what you're thinking."

I turned to Adrian and smiled. "You do?"

"They've lit Coit Tower in red to honor the firefighters who were killed," he said.

"Yeah, not really a shocker there," I said, "I mean, they lit the tower in orange and the bridge in blue when the Denver Broncos won the Super Bowl."

"And it is standard procedure to light the tower up in navy blue for a week whenever a cop is killed in the city."

"And purple when a cop and a firefighter get killed at the same time?" I asked.

Adrian leaned in and kissed me. "Yeah, something like that."

I laughed. "Of course. Compromising."

"Yeah…" We turned to face out the window, still holding hands. "And tomorrow, we have to resume hunting down the men who were involved in that shooting."

"Sadly, you're right." My smile faded, slightly.

Adrian grimaced. "Yeah, I know, Kendra. We may be Detectives Monk, Davenport and Teeger, who serve at your dad's beck and call, but we work for the hardworking people who live down there in the streets of this great city. We're the kind of people that the Chief would give the Medal of Valor to. Bad thing is, O'Donnell will kill anyone that stands in his path. And I hate to say that that means there are going to be lots of bodies piling up."

I stood silently, thinking. "And there's nothing we can do," I murmured.

"Exactly."

I smiled bitterly. "But some of those bodies will probably be put there by us, not by O'Donnell or his army of potato eaters."

Adrian tensed. "Oh, right, yeah. How could I forget that we've killed quite a fair number of O'Donnell's men."

"You haven't forgotten," I said, "You just pushed it to the back of your head."

Adrian put a hand on my shoulder. "That's right, I did."

"We have to be thinking about possible ways to move forward with this investigation, though," I said.

"Your dad did deputize Danielle," Adrian started to say, "Whoo, tongue twister there." He chuckled. "Ahem, Danielle has been deputized as Detective Third Grade in the Robbery-Homicide Bureau. We could use her."

"She's not enough," I said.

"What do you mean, she's not enough?"

"Adrian, I know Danielle showed proficiency when we took her to Lake Merced yesterday for target practice, but come on, she's being put into the department only knowing the tactics of private eye work and how to shoot straight," I said, "Adrian, you and I also know that the San Francisco Police Department and Intertect are completely separate things. The stuff we do in the department is not necessarily the same stuff a P.I. does. I mean, for starters, the department's goal is to take down criminals, while Intertect is probably a front for a criminal organization."

Adrian smiled. "Yeah, a front. I can imagine that every one of O'Donnell's operatives on the payroll probably is dirty in some way. But so are many of our bureau's detectives. Of course, when I say that I mean they get as dirty as possible without stepping over the line."

"And you just described us there," I said, turning to face Adrian. I curled my right fingers around his left hand. "I was just thinking that maybe we need other hands to help us out. Who are the next-best Robbery-Homicide detectives in the squad?"

Adrian pondered that for a moment. "That would be Amanda Devlin and Mike McKiernan."

"Ah," I said, "That would be a good choice. I assume you're not picking them because they live together, Adrian?"

"No, but because they have detective skills that are going to be very crucial to this operation," Adrian replied.

"Ahem." I said. "But Danielle needs a partner to teach her the ropes."

"She can ride with your dad," Adrian said, "I'll see if he can reorganize the tours for the rest of the week to make this happen." I looked into Adrian's eyes, and made a move to kiss him back. He quickly turned his head back towards the skyline.

"We can talk with them first thing tomorrow morning," Adrian said.

I smiled and blinked away a tear that was forming in my eye.

"That sounds like a good idea," I said, dreamily. We fell into a comfortable silence, looking at each other, our hands intertwined.

"This feels so romantic," I finally said after what felt like an eternity. "The two of us, alone, standing in front of a picturesque backdrop." I motioned with my head towards the skyline.

Adrian smiled. "You sure it's not the wine talking?"

"No it's not," I laughed, "It's just…been an eventful day. Two shootouts, one car bombing. Dinner at a bought-out restaurant. Admiring the beautiful night skyline with you."

"Yeah, it really is beautiful," Adrian said, "You know there's only one thing that's more beautiful than this, Kendra?"

"What is it?" I asked, feeling a grin forming as he cupped my face with his left hand.

"You standing right in front of it," he whispered. He let me kiss him, sighing into his mouth. Adrian took that as a cue to deepen the kiss, which he did by sticking his tongue into my mouth. I felt him wrap his right hand around my waist and pull me against him. I sighed as I felt a dose of sexual pleasure run from my mouth down to my feet.

"Adrian…." I moaned into his mouth between lip locks.

I instinctively began running my hands up and down Adrian's back, as we continued to devour each other with our mouths and he began to run his hands through my hair. I could feel that this makeout session felt as tender and passionate as the one we'd had in my bedroom that morning.

Eventually, like with before, Adrian turned to kissing my neck, his tongue caressing the left side of my collarbone not covered by my t-shirt or jacket.

"Kendra," he said softly against my skin.

I hummed into the side of his face. "Adrian…."

Adrian had a better sense of control than I did and quickly pulled back. I leaned forward so that we were touching foreheads.

"Hi," he said.

A small grin formed over my lips. "If you'd gone on a little more, we'd be on a one-way trip to Pleasure Town," I whispered.

"But, Kendra, Pleasure Town is only accessible if you drop acid," Adrian replied, though he was clearly amused by my suggestion, "Last time I checked."

I giggled and flirtatiously walked my left fingers up his chest. "You married a movie buff, Adrian. Surely you still know that?"

He kissed my forehead. "I do. And stop calling me Shirley."

We both broke out in fits of giggling.

"I'm not calling you that," I said. I gave Adrian a quick kiss on the lips.

"I thought so," he said.

"Well I'll call you it if we're undercover."

* * *

The day had been overly exhausting. After a long day of murders, shootouts, and a couple of passionate makeout sessions, I needed to decompress. All of that death and destruction was a heavy load, both emotionally and visually, to carry around. I wasn't surprised I was able to still put on a natural smile after a day that had started with a bloody shootout in a firehouse, a fire, a bombing, another shootout, and a few more murders on top of that. That was a typical day in our lives. So I went upstairs, went to my bedroom, and did what I had been itching to do since exchanging fire with O'Donnell: I went to my bathroom, lit a bunch of candles, poured a glass of wine, and sank into my bathtub.

Hey, if you're like me and you're a woman who kills countless armed henchmen in fights on a daily basis, you probably deserve time to pamper yourself every evening. And what's a better way to pamper yourself than an hour soaking in a hot bathtub with layer of bubbles so thick that nothing below your neck is visible. Which, funnily enough, reminded me of the conversation the three of us had had earlier in the evening about modesty bedsheets designed to cover up women's breasts on TV. The hot water felt relaxing, and I could squander our time off from the case, knowing we'd have to resume the hunt for O'Donnell in the morning.

And part of me couldn't stop thinking about O'Donnell in the back of my head, even when I was occupied with other matters. I still felt that Danielle must have been crying herself to sleep, knowing that her boyfriend was among O'Donnell's victims. There was no doubt that she would probably want O'Donnell brought down dead, rather than alive to face a trial.

But who was O'Donnell? The ruthless mass murderer we'd seen leading a gang at the firehouse or the one that hired us on at Intertect, possibly to keep us out of the way? We'd known about his background as the son of an IRA terrorist, how he'd come to the United States and settled down in San Francisco, becoming a cop and then the Intertect CEO. Why was he engaging in these sorts of crimes? What hopes and dreams did he have to accomplish?

I guess by that token, O'Donnell was fascinating because I was the wife of a police detective, and as much as I hated to admit it, I find that there are two kinds of criminals. There's the class of petty criminals, the kind that SFPD beat cops interact with the most when on patrol, and then there's the master criminals who have grand schemes and everything. We'd had our fair share of the latter. After all, it was Adrian, Natalie and I who singlehandedly took down Finn O'Leary in 2014. He was an Irish mob boss who sought to raze parts of the Tenderloin District and rebuild them in his own vision. And O'Leary wasn't just the average crime boss. He had a bunch of corrupt politicians in his pocket, in pretty much every city agency except the police department (well, in no small part because the SFPD has proactive measures designed to stop cops from going on the take, namely paying super-high salaries). It was a task force comprised of my dad, me, Adrian, Natalie, Devlin, McKiernan, and officials from the FBI and ATF, were responsible for bringing down his operation Taking him down did necessitate a number of gun battles with O'Leary and his associates, which ended with no loss of police lives but the loss of at least two dozen O'Leary goons. O'Leary, as you may probably guess, was also killed in a gunfight. I know that because I was the one who shot him.

In fact, come to think of it, I thought of O'Donnell as possibly being something akin to someone who was like Adrian or me, but the opposite. I mean, Adrian and O'Donnell both had to have psychological disorders. Adrian's got his OCD, which is in part what makes him the department's most observant detective. O'Donnell seemed to have some sort of complexity disorder. And I was basing that off what I'd seen at the firehouse and at the Irish pub. And then they became brilliant in two different lines of work: Adrian in police work, O'Donnell in robbery and mass murder work. Whatever O'Donnell was, I had to imagine that his father being a member of an IRA terror cell had to have messed him up, much like Adrian got his own psychological issues thanks to his mother. As for me, well, I at least grew up with both my mom and my dad to support me and they're still around today. If I had one thing in common with O'Donnell, it was that I was a very violent person. The only difference between us is that when I've hurt people, it's generally been someone who was asking for it, whether that be one of those annoying Cop Block assholes who try to provoke cops, or a criminal trying to fire on me with an AK-47. O'Donnell? He wouldn't care if innocent children got caught in the crossfire of one of his crimes, at least, that's what I had the impression of, again, from the firefights. O'Donnell's background might not lend any clues to the active case, but it sure would give an idea of how he operated.

After about forty minutes in the tub, I decided it was time for me to get ready for bed. So I dried off, put some moisturizer on my skin, and slipped on my pajamas and bathrobe. I then curled up in bed for about a half-hour reading _Public Enemies_ , mostly the parts about Jason Davenport's role in the Dillinger manhunt. I quickly called lights out around 11:15, and was fast asleep around 11:30 pm. _Let's hope tomorrow is just as exciting_ , I thought as I drifted off, _Maybe O'Donnell will drop some more bodies for us to work with._

* * *

 **A/N:** I tend to borrow cues from other works of fiction. For instance, the tactic of 'buy out the restaurant' is based on what Wilson Fisk does in _Daredevil_ for his second date with Vanessa so there are no interruptions..


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